


Against All Odds

by WhisperedSecretsss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Animal Death, Badass Harry Potter, Badass Lavender Brown because she deserved better, Blood and Gore, But we get there eventually i promise, Child Death, F/F, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Well almost lovers yall gotta wait a little bit, but still got that savior complex tho, enemies to allies to friends to lovers, please heed warnings, somewhat slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23731057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperedSecretsss/pseuds/WhisperedSecretsss
Summary: Harry Potter watches as year after year, children from the Districts of Hogwarts are chosen at random to compete to the death in a twisted form of entertainment known as the Hunger Games. He watches as year after year they are led to the slaughterhouse like the livestock of which his district is known for. In the midst of it all, Harry Potter hungers for power, for revenge, for justice. But most of all, he hungers for victory.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 68
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1 - Judgment Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Wisp here! Hope you enjoy my rendition of Harry Potter x Hunger Games crossover that’s been in the making for about six months now. Please heed said warnings in the tags. As always feel free to comment I love hearing all of y’all’s feedback and ideas. 
> 
> Also cover art for the story that Ive drawn is included too so check that out!  
> https://66.media.tumblr.com/f30890a9608f95bcb68fbc8c5bc9d1c6/118b15cd3ee6b03f-d8/s1280x1920/edd5e9fe4f48a8cb8ca179bab38834fd8334a564.jpg

Drip…. 

  
Drip…

  
Drip…..

The tiled walls were painted with a red mural depicting a violent end to a life. Here, there, everywhere was covered in that thick dark substance as it glistened underneath the flickering fluorescent lights.

Harry shook his head and the image slipped away, washed down along with the sweat and grime of the morning's work. Blood trickled down his hands and into the drain as he scrubbed harshly with the small square of rationed soap until finally, at last, the skin underneath was raw and clean. By now the warmth of the shower had been replaced with a freezing chill as the allotted time drew to a close. He closed his eyes anyway and savored the feeling of the streaming water even as the bleating of frightened sheep echoed in his ears.

With a shudder, the showerhead gave one last gush of ice water before suddenly cutting off and the teen sighs as he’s left shivering underneath the harsh glow of the fluorescents. Wrapping a scratchy towel around his waist, he opens his eyes and is relieved that the walls are no longer stained bloody, instead there are just the watery remains of condensation that have collected. 

One would think after years of working in the slaughterhouse such things wouldn't affect him anymore, and while to a degree he had become desensitized, it still haunted him at times. He could still feel the soft warm wool of the sheep from that morning, breathing, alive. Could still feel the thrumming of it’s blood, the beat of its heart thumping wildly against his thumb before it was severed with the sharp slash of a knife. He sometimes wondered if the animals knew what was about to happen as they were led away from the fields with electric prods or if they remained blissfully unaware of their fates. He hoped it was the latter.

Shaking the water droplets from his hair, the tired youth braced a hand against the wall, forcing himself to take a few steady breaths. In. Out. In. Out. It was a routine he repeated often but he had come to find out it was a trick that worked the best. In. Out. In. Out

"Oi," a voice called, startling Harry from his thoughts. "You done in there yet?"

No, Harry thinks. He was not done and would much rather stay underneath the freezing stream of water than face the world.

“Ain't got all day you know,” the voice gruffly adds a second later.

Harry is tempted to snark back but finds he doesn't have the energy to do so and instead bites back the acidic remark which is at the tip of his tongue. It won’t bode well to anger one of his co-workers. Not when they handled knives on a daily basis. And especially not today of all days.

Breathing finally normal, he pushes the sad excuse for a shower cover aside and politely ignores the man who had interrupted his, quite frankly, piss poor attempts at meditation. The waiting man grumbles under his breath but doesn't say any more as he goes to claim the open shower.

Despite the fact that they were all working in conditions where blood and entrails were a common occurrence, being as poor as District 10 was, they simply didn't have the resources for enough facilities, thereby forcing everyone to take turns in the bathrooms. Such amenities were reserved for citizens of the Capitol.

Harry was lucky enough to be one of the first in that day but the reprieve does not last long as the locker room is soon filled with the sound of shuffling as workers start to file in. Privacy was a luxury he couldn't afford so he's quick to slip into the spare change of clothes he keeps stored in one of the Capitol issued lockers. The clothes are stiff from the washing he gave them last night and smell of the cheap homemade soap his Aunt Petunia forces him to make but it's better than the sickly cloying scent of blood that manages to permeate every nook and cranny of the slaughterhouse.

He absently notices that the locker room chatter is unusually quiet today, as if there is a seemingly dark cloud hanging over the workers heads. It comes as no surprise though. It was Reaping Day after all. It weighed heavily on the minds of everyone, both young and old. 

He finishes buttoning up the wrinkled shirt, which hangs loosely off of him in a rather unappealing fashion, but, to be fair, so did all of his cousin’s hand me down clothes. Harry wasn’t one to complain though. It was better than nothing and even if he did resemble a skinny runt from one of the litters of animals he often saw, well that wasn't his problem. 

Beginning to towel his hair, he catches snippets of conversation. It's all the usual. How many pounds of meat they had butchered that day. What price it would fetch and such. He doesn’t even try to eavesdrop when all of it is boring and dull, but he's not one to judge. His own life was as boring and dull as anyone else's even if there were the ever constant fears of starving to death. He supposes it could be worse.

As the conversations around him drone on, it’s not hard to notice everyone is avoiding one topic in particular. 

Harry can't blame them. Reaping Day is never fun, no matter how much the Capitol tries to make it seem. Glory in being chosen and all that bullshit they spewed out. Although most of the workers are far too old to be worried about being called, he knows many of them have children, some Harry's age, others younger, that have yet to make it past the cutoff age for being Reaped

Ah yes. Reaping Day. He almost snorts at the thought. A day where innocent children were chosen at random only to be carted off and sent to die at the hands of one another. Apparently human lives were an expense the Capitol thought worth paying for in the form of twisted entertainment otherwise known as the Hunger Games. Broadcasted live across Hogwarts for all to watch as twenty-four victims, sorry, tributes, were driven to hack each other apart all to gain the title of victor and return home with their life intact. If he already wasn't so unfortunately accustomed to the long held tradition he might have found himself sick.

Being as it was, he had come to realize quite early on that such sentiments for the Games, while shared by many, were not easily conveyed unless one wanted to run the risk of being branded a rebel and be imprisoned, or worse, put to death. The first time he had voiced such thoughts at the tender age of twelve, his Aunt Petunia had smacked him upside the head. It was the only time she had ever laid a hand on him, which considering her usual attitude towards him, wasn’t saying much, but since then he had been careful not to make the same mistake. Such thoughts he learned, were best kept to oneself.

Though there weren't many cameras in his district, and believe him when he knew where each one was located, the walls still had eyes and ears. Your neighbor would sooner sell you out as a Capitol traitor if it meant putting food on the table. Not to mention the ever persistent presence of peacekeepers who did their daily patrols and kept careful watch from their towers. No one was safe for the Capitol's influence reached far and wide.

Shutting the locker door, the boy is quick to leave the crowded room where even with the heavy smell of soap, the iron stench of blood still lingers. The men make no attempt to small talk with him and Harry is glad that they don't. Everyone was on edge and if he wasn't careful, a few misplaced words would be enough to trigger the ticking time bomb of anxiety.

He considers taking his dirty work clothes with him, but decides to do it later that day after the Reaping is over. He’ll wash them in the small stream near the fields where the sheep converge to drink. He’d probably end up taking a bath himself even if the water wasn’t exactly hygienic but he always felt dirty every year after the Reaping though that was the only day where he was at his cleanest.

As he steps out of the slaughterhouse and into the outside world, the youth immediately can feel some of the tension start to leave his body. It always happened as soon as he left the humid confines of the bloody building. Though he always had to return the next day, any time spent outside of the soul sucking place was time well spent even if it was often exchanged for the presence of his rather nasty relatives.

Harry idly wonders how his other co-workers, both men and women, most who have been there far longer than he has, manage to go in day after day and kill animal after animal. He visibly sneers. Probably like one how one managed being forced to watch children fight to the death year after year.

Picking up his pace, he is eager to leave those thoughts behind him as he follows the broken cobblestone path which leads to him to the center of his part of the district. Though District 10 is quite large, given that they needed the space for so many animals, it was actually divided into two parts. 

Harry, along with his relatives, lived in the part known as the “Butchery'' given the number of slaughterhouses they had in the area. The other part of District 10, called the “Pastures”, had the more humane task of taking care of the animals out in their pens. In the Butchery, the slaughterhouses were located on the southern edge of the district, a smart choice given their admittedly bad smell and appearance. Though the slaughterhouses had been outfitted with Capitol technology because the citizens certainly didn’t want their meat being poisoned due to bad sanitation, they were in badly need of repair and general upkeep. All in all they were ugly buildings both inside and out. Harry liked to call the specific slaughterhouse he worked at as “The Capitol”. All in his head of course.

The air is warm, and he lets himself bask in the nice sunny weather as he walks although careful to watch out for the occasional jutted stone. He spies the budding leaves on a few of the trees already waking up from their winter hibernation. Spring was fast approaching which meant the birth of new baby animals and also the annual occurrence of the Games. If not for the Reaping, Harry might have found himself enjoying the rest of the day for he hardly found himself with any time off between the workload of butchering animals day in and day out coupled with the ever demanding tasks his Aunt and Uncle piled upon him.

However, despite the fact that the day was considered a festivity of sorts, it wasn’t a holiday even in the slightest. It was more like a funeral procession than anything. The only celebratory thing about the games was the fact that the victor’s home district would receive prizes of grain and other sought out things. Harry thought it was a good way to fester contempt and distrust among the individual districts.

While ruminating on thoughts of the games, he notices a few wildflowers that have bravely sprouted their way from the dirt. They’re a little sign of beauty among the dreary scenery which seems to persist no matter how sunny it is; a splash of color in a world made up only of shades of gray and blood red. Harry quickly picks a few before continuing on. He’s not aimlessly wandering though, no, he has a destination in mind.

~~~~~~~~~~

Although the walk is long, it allows him to clear his head until it is as empty and barren as the wasteland which borders District 12. Fortunately, not many people are out today, instead choosing to spend the remainder of their mornings shut up inside, spending what could be their last hours with family.

After crossing and taking several different roads he finds himself standing in front of the Butchery’s trading center. It had been a distance away but he had managed to come in time although it would be closing early as most places did when Reaping Day came.

While there were three centers in total, this was the one closest to his home. The Butchery trading center was one of the three centers in District 10 where the Capitol came to pick up their supply of meat, fruit, and vegetables. The fruit and vegetables came from District 11 who shared a border with 10. They were in charge of supplying the Capitol with agricultural products while many of their own dstrict inhabitants were left starving. One would be shot on site if caught stealing even one piece of fruit.

The trading center was kept under careful watch, by both peacekeepers and Capitol informants alike but after years of practice, Harry is able to slip past the peacekeepers undetected and enter the facility. He does not let his guard down though. One could never be too careful when it came to breaking the rules because technically he’s not supposed to be there given he didn’t have any supplies that needed to be collected. He could get in trouble if he were caught but that had never scared him. Besides, one couldn’t live as a citizen of Hogwarts unless you had a little bit of danger present in your life.

It only takes a few minutes of general ducking and weaving when he catches what, or rather who, he’s looking for. Harry smiles in spite of himself as he spots a flash of bright orange hair. Bingo.

She hasn’t seen him yet and Harry uses that to his advantage and plans to surprise her. It had been weeks since their last meeting and though they hadn’t discussed it beforehand, he knew she would be here. They had met at the same spot the past seven years before each Reaping Day and he knew she wasn’t one to break tradition. 

Harry edges closer and though the girl's back is turned towards him, he catches the way she suddenly stiffens. Damn it. He'd been so close.

She spins around quickly and the face of Ginny Weasley meets his eyes. Ginger, freckled, and rebellious would be the words he would have used to describe her if someone asked.

“Harry,” she states, breathless, and Harry feels his own smile widen.

He doesn’t bother replying back as he already finds himself enclosed in a hug. The two stand there hugging, probably looking like a pair of proper idiots in the middle of the trading center, but Harry shoves that thought aside.

He takes in the small details as he always does when he’s with his friend. She’s still shorter than him which is no surprise. Harry liked to make fun of her for it but Ginny’s height didn’t stop her from being one of the best Orchard pickers District 11 had ever seen. She was one of the only one’s brave enough to venture into the high treetops even with the risk of the branches snapping underneath her weight. Harry grips her closer. He often wished he was more like Ginny. Unapologetically fearless.

They eventually part, and he notices her cheeks are redder than usual, most likely sunburned due to the amount of time she spends out in her district’s orchards, harvesting fruit from sun up till sun down.

“Long time no see,” she smiles out brightly. Although they aren't supposed to interact with other district members, that didn't stop the seeds of friendships from being sown.

He can still remember the day he had bumped into her as a young kid quite clearly. It had been his first year “employed” at the slaughterhouse. It was more like forced servitude but the Capitol certainly wouldn’t call it that. Voluntary labor would be their phrasing.

That still didn’t stop them from letting a twelve year old join the ranks of butchers. It had been his first time in the trading center as he had been sent to deliver his weekly quota of meat. Everything had seemed so big and new at the time that little twelve year old him had been so focused he hadn’t thought to look out for the other people around him. 

Subsequently, a young girl collided into him and the basket of towering fruit she had clutched in her arms spilled everywhere as the two went tumbling to the ground.

The fall had shocked him out of his stupor and, while desperately mumbling out apologies, he had helped her place the fruit back in the basket, although a little bruised after their fall.

The girl's hazel eyes had only watched him, an open air of curiousness to her as he helped. When all the fruit had been picked up, Harry had found himself ready to flee from the scene due to embarrassment but she had stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you okay,” she’d asked, concern wavering in her eyes.

He had only nodded back in stunned silence, unable to believe another person was talking to him. Most people he interacted with tended to ignore him, both at home and in the slaughterhouse.

The girl had looked around quickly before sticking a hand out, her freckled cheeks turning red as cherries as she introduced herself. “My name is Ginny.”

He had stared at the outstretched hand, not quite sure if he should take it or not. The decision was made for him as the girl reached out and shook his hand herself. “What’s your name,” she inquired, taking charge of the conversation.

“I’m Harry.”

She had given him a once over, which till this day made Harry laugh at. The obvious judgment in Ginny’s ten year old face had been a sight to see.

“You’re not from District 11 are you.”

At the obvious confusement on his face, she had grinned wider and poked his cheek. “I can tell because you’re not as sunburned as the rest of us are.”

Though it was only a few words, exchanged, less so on Harry’s part, a friendship between the two blossomed from the encounter. 

Unfortunately, a peacekeeper had seen the fruit tumbling accident occur and their initial conversation had been cut short as both were punished due to the incident. Afterwards, the two had bonded over their mutual hatred of the Capitol, strong as it was even at their young age.

“How have you been?” She asks suddenly, pulling Harry from his memories of the past.

“The usual,” he comments but makes no attempts to explain further. Ginny knew about his life at the slaughterhouse along with his relatives. He knows she pity’s him but he doesn’t mind given both their lives aren’t exactly perfect.

“How’s your family doing?” He questions the redhead in return.

Her smile flickers and dims. “As well as one could be I suppose.”

Harry nods in understanding. Family is perhaps one of the most valued things for Ginny and yet it's also her most painful. Although the three oldest sons of the Weasley’s managed to escape being Reaped, there were still four more siblings left to go. Harry doesn't know how Mrs. Weasley manages to cope with the stress of knowing that any one of them could be called, snatched away at any moment.

“Really though,” his voice drops lower in case anyone is listening, “How are you?”

Her face steels into a look of determination. “Ready as ever,” she spits out, the words brazen and confident. Her hands betray her though as they twist at the material of her shirt, a nervous habit she’d had ever since they were young.

He gently grabs them so he can hold them in his own. She looks down at their entwined fingers.

“It’s going to be okay. Okay?” He speaks softly to her, attempting to sooth her nerves. “Your name is only in there five times. The chances of being called are slim to none.”

Harry could almost say for certain she had nothing to fear. The Weasley brothers all valued their little sister too much to allow her to sign up for the extra tessera despite her attempts to help feed her family.

That was a suspicious little detail of the Hunger Games. Although a person only had their name recorded on a slip for each year they were eligible, once at twelve, twice at thirteen, and so forth, there was the option to have one's name entered multiple times in exchange for a year's worth of a paltry amount of grain and oil. One could even sign up for other family members. Harry would know given his Aunt and Uncle forced him to apply for the tessera every year for each member of the Dursley’s, Harry included, ever since he had turned twelve.

“What about you?,” she questions, her eyes searching his face.

He gives her a smarmy smirk in return, hoping to assure her. “Well I’m certainly not worried.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes at his shoulder playfully. “Says the one with forty slips.”

“Thirty-five to be exact,” he quips back.

Her playfulness is quickly replaced with sullenness. “Only because they force you to do it,” she bites out.

Harry takes her anger in stride knowing that despite Ginny's tough exterior, she was as scared as ever. Although this was the last year Harry would be eligible for the games, Ginny still had another two to go. Fortunately for her twin brothers Fred and George, who were Harry’s age, this would be their last year as well while her other younger brother Ron still had one more left.

“It’ll be okay,” he repeats to her once more. “Besides,” he continues as he rubs circles on the back of her hand, “it could be worse.” 

She gives him a sharp look as if asking how their situation could be any worse.

He shrugs. “We could be in District 12 right now.” They both simultaneously shudder at the thought.

District 12, one of, if not the poorest of all 12 districts, was in charge of mining coal. They had had a recent mine explosion the past week and the news had spread even as far as to District 10.

For a moment Harry considers what it would be like to be constantly covered in ash and soot from the mines rather than the blood stains of livestock. He doesn't know which one he prefers.

”Ah, wait a second, I have something for you.” Harry fishes around in his pocket before presenting her with the wildflowers he’d picked earlier, albeit a little crushed from traveling with him. “For you my lovely lady,” he says as he mockingly imitates the flashy accent of the Capitol. 

She snorts but accepts them anyways, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she softly rubs a finger against the petals. 

The digital clock in the trade center suddenly lets out a deep wail. Ah. Time was already up.

Ginny glances in the direction of the sound before turning her eyes back to him, a sheen of desperation reflected in them. Harry knows he better leave before he gets caught without a pass but he gives himself a few more seconds.

“Hey, remember, In and Out,” he murmurs to her as he places his hands on her shoulders, so reminiscent of their first meeting.

She nods and he can feel the inhale and exhale of her breath underneath his hands. It was something he’d taught her when she had become first eligible for the Games. The breathing technique had helped calm her down and ever since then it had been an inside phrase shared between them.

The clock lets out a warning buzz this time. They only have a few more moments before they are forced to leave with one last parting hug. Harry feels as the redhead slips something into the pockets of his pants. He pulls away, but makes sure he memorizes her face, down to every single freckle. Although the chances of being called could be one in hundreds, one never knew what to expect.

Ginny gives him a lopsided smile, though it looks more like a grimace, as she releases him and heads off into the direction where the entrance to District 11 is.

Harry makes sure he is lost in the sudden crowd of people surging to the District 10 entrance. The peacekeepers guarding the doors struggle to check IDs but eventually give up. It’s Reaping Day after all and everyone would have to check in anyway given that attendance was mandatory.

Although Harry does not run home, he does certainly walk faster than normal if only to prepare himself for the emotional turmoil of the Reaping. Even though he had not been called in all his years, a little part of him died inside every time the yearly event came. There was something about seeing children, some as young as twelve, torn away from their families and forced to participate in a tournament where death was the most likely outcome. It ate and ate at him till he was sure there was nothing left but bones. The Hunger Games indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Reaching the shoddy little house of his relatives, he surprisingly notes both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon aren't home. He would have assumed they would be getting ready with his cousin Dudley but maybe they had already gone ahead of him.

The door lets out a squeak of protest when he opens it and he waits a moment, but the house remains silent. The house itself is a sorry shamble of brick and wood but the Dursley’s are one of the lucky ones who managed to live in such a place. Harry wasn’t quite sure exactly how they managed to afford the house but he tended to not concern himself with the affairs of his Aunt and Uncle.

The relationship between him and the Dursley’s could be described as frosty at best. The only reason they bothered to keep him around was to force him to do the chores and collect his yearly tessera. Even his cousin Dudley wasn’t on good terms with him given he used to bully Harry all the time with his gang from school when they were younger.

Still though, Harry was grateful for the roof over his head. Some of District 10’s inhabitants lived in shacks; he had seen them on the side of the roads, ready to fall over at the slightest push. Even worse, some were homeless and forced to spend their days in the streets. When winter came and snow covered the ground, the bodies of those unable to find shelter were always found but carted away before any of the other district residents could stumble upon them. Where they were dumped Harry didn't know but he assumed it wasn't some place pleasant. He had a conspiracy that they chopped up the bodies so they could be fed to the animals but he hadn’t found anything yet to prove his theory.

The floorboards creak as he crosses the tiny excuse for a kitchen to where his area is. While Vernon and Petunia shared a room, and Dudley with his own, Harry was made to sleep in a corner of the kitchen on a homemade cot he scavenged from dumped materials behind the slaughterhouse.Threadbare sheets haphazardly were thrown over it, worn thin from years of sleep and laundry, but it was enough for him. It was all he had. Well. Almost all he had.

As he kneeled down beneath the side of his bed, he pried at a loose floorboard where he kept what few belongings he had. Although seemingly unimportant, they were quite valuable to him because of their significance. He first pulls out a tiny ID tag that had fallen out of the ear of one of the calf’s out in the fields of which he had pocketed. What comes next is an odd assortment of knick knacks all with various origins including a metal chain with a tiny bell attached that Ginny had given him on one of his birthdays.

Speaking of which, he paws at his pocket and a smile graces his lips as a golden apple appears out of the folds of clothing. She always managed to slip him stolen fruit from the orchards during their meetings but how she did it he never knew. He considers placing it in the floorboard but instead returns it back in his pocket, deciding that he’ll eat it after the Reaping.

Last but not least, and what was probably Harry’s most prized possession, is a faded black and white picture. It was not just any picture though. It was the only thing he had left of his parents. Though photos were much too expensive to afford, this one had been with him ever since he was a baby. It had become fuzzy and slightly torn over the years due to exposure but he still treated it like one might treat a baby. The smiling faces of Lily and James Potter gazed up at him from the photo, his father's arms wrapped around his mother.

Harry was an exact copy of his father, from the unruly black hair down to their olive skin but he had always been told his eyes were that of his mothers.

On the other side of the photo is a shortly written letter but it was in a language Harry couldn’t recognize. Although the Capitol made sure that the children of the districts went to school and were given an education, the writing was unlike the alphabet he had learned as a child. Harry wished he could understand it if only to know what his parents were thinking at the time when they had written it.

Unpleasant feelings pull at his stomach, but for once that day it does not have to do with the Reaping. Rather, it came from a sadness of not knowing his parents. He didn’t have any memories of them and all he really knows is that they were killed by capital insurgents during a small rebellion among the poorer districts some odd years ago. Deep in his heart Harry was sure they had been good people even if his Aunt and Uncle only ever shared their dislike of them.

By the time he puts the picture away in it's safe little hiding spot, it is already close to Reaping time. Although the Dursley’s don't have enough money for a clock, Harry can still tell by the way the crowds are beginning to congregate and gather down the streets that 2 o’clock is fast approaching.

He quickly but gently places the rest of his belongings back into their little space before recovering them with the floorboard. 

As he stands up, he can’t help but feel the tension from the morning return. Though it would be a lie to say he wasn't nervous, Harry feels surprisingly calm in spite of things but he still cracks his knuckles to relieve a bit of the pressure. Sure his name was on a good number of slips. But that didn't mean anything in the face of hundreds, if not thousands of slips. What were the odds he would be called. He grimly thinks of the infamous hunger games slogan. May the odds be ever in his favor indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The youth doesn’t bother to lock the door as he leaves. It’s not like anyone would rob them given they'll all be gathered at the main square. He quickly finds himself walking among a group of other Butchery children. Some of them are familiar from school, others not, but as he glances at their faces, all of them hold the same grim looks.

Signing in for Reaping Day is fast and efficient like most Capitol governed things only Harry gives them the name of Harry Dursley. To the Capitol, Harry Potter doesn't exist given he died the moment his parents did.

It doesn’t take long for him to find the specified area given the space is age coordinated with oldest in the back and youngest up front. He crosses across the space to stand in the roped off area where a paper with a large black 18 printed on it flutters in the spring breeze. The font of it reminds Harry of the type they use to brand the District 10 cattle.

He mentally shakes himself. No. He couldn’t afford to lose himself in the moment. Distracting himself, he searches for the familiar face of his cousin but doesn’t see him. He finds that he doesn't care. The sooner they could be over with this the better.

The square eventually begins to fill up and it’s as though he is in a cage, with bodies pressing every which way and from all directions. They’re herded together like the livestock for which District 10 is known for and Harry distantly feels like one of the animals trapped in the confines of the slaughterhouse. The memory of the sheep from that morning surfaces, alive, that is, until there is blood pooling under his palm. Harry thinks he’s going to be sick. In. Out. In. Out. Desperately searching for something to focus on, his eyes catch on the cameras positioned around the square, catching every moment on tape.

The time has now reached 2 o’clock and the space, along with the side-along streets, are now packed to the brim with the inhabitants of District 10, all 9,000 waiting in suspense for the Reaping to commence.

At the sound of a bell, Harry’s gaze is drawn from observing the cameras to the justice building which stands tall and mighty, its style like that of Capitol architecture although it hasn't been used in several years for anything other than to house the current mayor.

There are four seats placed on the stage platform, one for the mayor, one for the Capitol representative, and two for previous victors. In all 48 years of the Hunger Games, only three victors had been from District 10. Two were currently still alive, the other having taken their life right after winning.

Though the mayor is already seated on one of the four chairs, the other three remain empty, but not for long.

Harry watches as the second person to arrive, Minerva Mcgonagall, takes a seat on the farthest chair from the left. She had been a victor in the 11th year of the games. Renowned for her intelligence, she’d been able to beat all of the other competitors by simply relying on her wits and knowledge of traps. Though it is hard to see from his position, Harry is certain she has a frown on her face. The woman hardly ever smiled and always had a stern look about her. Apparently a life of luxury did not exactly repay weeks of psychological and physical child warfare.

By now the collective nerves of the crowds seems to have manifested in the air. The boys around him shift from side to side, forcing Harry to be careful to not be stepped on. Although he is not as short as Ginny, years of malnutrition and forced labor had not served him well in terms of height department.

The crowd is antsy, waiting for the Reaping to start. After what seems like forever, the last two finally show up.

Gilderoy Lockheart, the Capitol escort for District 10, appears from behind the justice building doors as well as Albus Dumbledore, District 10’s other victor.

Although he's not that old, Dumbledore's beard is long and white, making him appear more like a grandfather than a Hunger Games victor. He was in one of the first games, but no one would have ever thought he’d turn out to be the victor. From what stories Harry had heard of him, the tribute had been rather mysterious, neither showing strength nor weakness. The only noteworthy thing about his performance was his alliance with a boy from District 2, someone named Gellert, who he had teamed up with before turning on in the final showdown.

To be honest, based on the comments Dumbledore liked to make and his rather odd taste in fashion, Harry thinks he's gone mad over the years. He supposes he would too if he had to compete in the games.

Seeing as everyone is there, the mayor stands and begins to read the script which details the history of the glorious nation known as Hogwarts. Hogwarts, a nation which arose out of the continent formerly known as North America, had a lot to overcome. Famine, fires, rising tides, any disaster one could think of, occurred as if a punishment had been sent down on humanity. Despite the natural disasters, a brutal war had been raged among the people until out of the flames came Hogwarts, comprised of a Capitol which was surrounded by 13 districts.

For a time they all had worked together in harmony, that was until a period known as the Dark Days happened where the districts rose in rebellion against the Capitol. Sufficient to say, they were thoroughly stamped out, one district even being wiped off the face of Hogwarts. In order to ensure that such a thing never happened again, the Capitol had created the Treaty of Treason and from it the Hunger Games were born.

While starvation could certainly happen, the games didn’t always follow their namesake. One was more likely to be killed by another tribute or, Harry shudders involuntarily, a creature the gamemakers had created in a lab meant specifically for the games.

He can recall very vividly in his second year of being eligible for the games, a tribute from District 6 had been mauled by a type of wolf beast. It had not been a pretty sight but attendance was mandatory and thirteen year old Harry could naught but stand and watch as the tribute was torn to shreds, screaming until his throat had been ripped out by the animal. He had had nightmares about it for the rest of the duration of that year's games. Needless to say, one might almost prefer starvation.

Ultimately, the only way to win the games was to essentially outlast the other districts tributes and be the last one standing, even if one was missing a limb or two like the female victor from District 4 had been in Harry’s fourth year.

The mayor drones on and on but Harry can tell he is nearing the end of the script as he reads off the names of District 10’s previous victors, both of whom sit stone-faced in their seats. Harry wonders what it’s like, to mentor children from your district every year only to send them off to their certain deaths. The thought makes him queasy.

The mayor coughs, catching Harry’s attention, before continuing. “ _It is a time for repentance and thanks_.” Harry barely manages to refrain from rolling his eyes. It was the same brainwashing reading said every year. 

The mayor finally finishes his speech and the mood shifts as the annual Reaping for District 10 officially begins.

“Please, welcome, Mr. Lockheart,” the mayor intones as he motions towards said man. Lockheart enthusiastically takes to the podium as the other steps down.

“Ahem,” the microphone screeches and the crowd collectively flinches.

Lockheart flushes before flashing an award winning smile. Harry swears he sees a few girls swoon. His smile is bright white, sparkling like the slaughterhouse fluorescents but Harry is more blinded by his outfit of choice. It’s a periwinkle blue suit bejeweled with countless glitter sequins which sparkle as they catch the sunlight. Too top it all off a long cape, no, Harry squints his eyes, a cloak fans out behind him, the capitol ensigma branded on the back. The Capitol was known for it's ridiculous fashion styles and as Lockhart adjusts his cravat, Harry is reminded of the roosters who strut about their coops as if basking in their self importance. With that many layers, he must be sweating in the heat.

“Hello everyone,” the peacock beams out. “I’m sure you’re all excited for this year's 49th annual Reaping!”

Crickets.

Harry gives the man props. Despite the heavy atmosphere, he continues on unaffected.

“And without further ado let's commence this year's Hunger Games!” Lockheart gives one last chipper smile though Harry can tell it’s a strained one at that. “And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Like usual it’s ladies first because in a death tournament one always had to follow such rules of etiquette. Lockheart goes over to a big crystal ball, which sits upon a pedestal on the stage, hundreds of creamy white slips contained inside. The man reaches in and digs around for a moment before retrieving a slip.

The crowd is silent, so much so Harry can hear the boy next to him breathing, as they wait to hear the results for this year's female tribute.

“And our lovely female tribute is..”

Harry, for some reason, imagines a drumroll going off in his head.

"Lavender Brown!"

All eyes turn towards the section marked 17 where Lavender Brown stands in utter shock. She's well known in the Butchery more so for her looks than anything else. Harry feels bad. Lavender is a sweet girl but she doesn’t stand a chance. She won't last a heartbeat.

To her credit, though her face has lost any hint of color, she does not cry. It had happened in the past where a tribute had made a scene at a Reaping, unable to accept their fate. It was not a good look given any sign of weakness was pounced upon.

Harry watches dispassionately as she mounts the steps to the stage. He can see her hands trembling at her side but still, not a tear appears. The same can't be said for her parents however, their cries clearly heard as they watch their daughter from the sidelines.

One down. One more to go.

“Time to choose our male tribute,” Lockhart excitedly announces and, it was even possible, the tension mounts. There are less boys than girls this year eligible for the Reaping given many of them had aged out the previous year. Chances for being chosen have increased making everyone anxious.

As Lockheart fishes around in the bowl, Harry shuts his eyes and desperately practices his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. At some point he must have grabbed the hand of the boy next to him, or maybe the boy grabbed his, but it doesn't matter.

Everyone watches with bated breath as the male tribute for the 49th annual Hunger Games is announced.

“And our male tribute is..”

In. Out. In. Out. At some point it stops working and Harry finds he can't breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Static rings in his ears and a voice inside his head tells him he’s hyperventilating.

He clenches his eyes tighter and before him the walls of his minds are painted red, glistening wetly as the scent of blood fills his lungs and makes him choke. The sheep underneath his hands gives one last frightened bleat before it is forever silenced with the draw of a blade.

"......."

Harry's eyes flash open. He forces the air out of his lungs, The breath he’d been holding comes out in a large exhale, almost a wheeze. Time seems to catch up to him and he realizes that the name written on the little slip of paper is not Harry Potter. For a moment, Harry is elated. But then everything else catches up to him as he realizes something. The name written on the little slip of paper is not Harry Potter.

-

-

-

It's Dudley Dursley.


	2. Chapter 2 - A Starving Heart

To say Harry was shocked would be an understatement. As the name on the slip of paper held in the hands of Gilderoy Lockheart finally registers in his brain, he is stunned beyond all belief.

His cousin, Dudley Dursley, the boy who had been his childhood bully despite the blood they shared, had just been named as a tribute for the Hunger Games.

It occurs to Harry for the briefest of moments, that in spite of the fact his own name had to have been written into the double digits, by some miracle he hadn't been Reaped. It was as if all those years of praying to not be chosen had been answered.

Numbly, Harry stands on his tiptoes in an attempt to look over the shoulders of the boys around him and tries to find his cousin among the group of eighteen year olds standing together. It only takes a moment before he spots him, the other’s face white, mouth open as if Dudley can’t believe the outcome of the situation either.

Harry supposes he would be just as disbelieving, if not more, were he his cousin given Dudley had all the odds going for him. Yes he was eighteen and his name had been entered in seven times as was mandatory, but he was one of the few kids, besides the younger ones, who had only that, given most others signed up for the yearly tessera and whose names had to have been in the double digits as well.

After years of being subjected to the torment of Dudley and his gang, Harry is secretly elated that his cousin is finally getting a taste of his own medicine. All the times the other boy had harassed Harry, mocked him each time he had had nightmares and woke up screaming, every time the other had taunted him saying he’d probably end up being a tribute too, all of it was now coming back to haunt him.

Suddenly remembering that Petunia and Vernon must be watching from somewhere nearby, Harry quickly scans the crowd only to see them standing at the sidelines, the blood drained from their faces with similar stricken expressions painting their features. Even from his distance away from them, he can see them visibly shaking, clutching each other as if scared the other might collapse.

If it were any other day Harry might have been overcome with glee. Serves them right after all the years of treating him like trash. Treated him like he was nothing but a waste of space and couldn't even be bothered with his presence in their household. There had been times in his life Harry had wondered why his relatives had ever taken him in when it seemed as though they rather he didn't exist at all. If it were any other day he might have felt vindicated that fate seemed to be in his favor for once in his life.

But today was Reaping Day and in spite of all things the Dursleys had said and done to him, Harry was not that cruel.

Turning his eyes back to face the stage, the teen saw that his cousin had already begun to walk towards it, the shock still evident even as Dudley climbed the stage steps.

Around him, murmurs of condolence are whispered in the crowd for despite Dudley's tendency to be a rather mean and taunting boy, it had been the last year before he would no longer be eligible for the Games. He had been so close to escaping the guillotine and yet the chance had slipped out of his grasp.

It seems the boy knows this too because as he stands there next to Lavender, there is a broken look sitting on his face, as if he knows he has been beat.  
  
It was that defeated look, of a man having already accepted his fate, which sparked something in Harry Potter.

As the boy considers the two tributes who stand on the platform before him, a sudden rage seeps its way into his skin and licks it’s way up his spine. Not for the tributes or even Lockheart as he stood there with the stupid grin stretched in his face, but for everything that Reaping Day stood for.

In the months leading up to the Reaping, Harry had consoled himself with a repeated mantra that this was his last year, that it would be all over as soon as he turned nineteen, but in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t, not really. Yes Harry wouldn’t be eligible for the games after this year but they would still continue on as they always had only instead a new generation would step forward to take his place.

Nothing would change.

Year after year Harry Potter had watched as countless children were sent to a competition, one of which brought out the savagery of mankind and forced you to either kill or be killed.

And year after year as the blood soaked the arena ground and the faces of the dead were displayed at the end of each day, the embers of despisement and hatred burned in him till there was nothing left but the scorched remains of a hollow heart.

But as Harry Potter stood among the crowds of teens and District 10 onlookers, the fire returned, burning hotter than ever, sustained more so as a silence settled over the people because at the end of the day, everyone was happy they weren’t the ones chosen to be sent to their deaths. _No_ , he viciously thinks, they’d rather all starve to death in the silence and safety of their district.

At that moment, Harry doesn’t know what propels him to do it.

Maybe it was the unfairness of it all, which hung heavy in the air like the echoing wails from Lavender’s parents. The unfairness of watching your child, one's flesh and blood, die all because of a mistake committed forty-nine years ago.

Maybe it was the fact that despite his relatives' treatment of Harry, it felt as though he owed them an unpaid favor. Felt as though he was in their debt for taking him in when his parents had been killed instead of abandoning him to the pig pens to follow a similar fate.

And who knew if things would get worse after Dudley died because Harry wouldn’t lie to himself, there would be no way his cousin could survive the Hunger Games. Despite all appearances and childhood bullying, Dudley didn’t have what it took to kill a sheep let alone another human.

Or maybe, it wasn’t anything of those things.

Maybe it was because Harry wanted to prove to himself, to the nation of Hogwarts, that one could resist the Capitol's control. To prove that they could not orchestrate every single thing that had formed every part of his dull and boring life up to that point.

At the time, Harry didn’t know what caused him to do what he did, and maybe he never would, but in that moment he feels a gnawing hunger so deep in his bones it makes him want to scream until his throat is raw and bloody like that of the District 6 boy which haunted his dreams.

As the seconds tick by and the stare of the broken children before him burn into his soul, the memories of every cow, pig, chicken, sheep, and tribute that had gone still underneath the blade held by the bloodstained hands of the Capitol fill Harry’s head; all victims of a regime who valued human life no more than that of an animal.

The anger roars to life and his vision becomes red, red like that of the bloodied neck of the dead lamb from earlier that morning, drowning in it's own blood as it lay in the clenched grip of his hands.

All his life Harry had craved change, craved the chance to be able to make his own decisions in spite of the constant threat of Capitol watch.

As the boy watches the defeated eyes of the two District 10 tributes fall to the ground, already knowing their fate is sealed, he decides that maybe it is time to break away from the herd, even after all the years of being led around by the Capitol’s collar.

It is those memories and feelings which fuel his ravenous rage and pushes him forward.

It is a starving heart, a heart which aches and hungers for the fruit of freedom, that causes Harry Potter, who had been nothing but an unknown slaughterhouse boy, to take a step forward, and then another, and then another.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Guilderoy Lockheart announces with a shiny smile and a sweep of his hands, “I am proud to announce this year’s District 10 tributes, Lavender Brown and-”

“I VOLUNTEER,” a voice yells, ringing out loud and clear, cutting Lockheart off.

All heads swivel towards the uttered words and the crowd parts to reveal an unassuming boy with blazing jade eyes and a hand held high in the air.

“I-I’m sorry?” stutters out Guildroy, the microphone he held screeching in protest.

The crowd disperses and watches stupefied as the boy takes a step forward, and then another, and then another, until he finds himself at the bottom of the stage, eyes gazing upwards into the eyes of the speaker.

By now the cameras have all turned their focus towards the boy, recording every moment of the events playing out for such entertainment never happened at Reapings.

“I volunteer as tribute,” Harry repeats once more, annunciating each word with a growl.

His words are met with a tension different from before but one still thick enough to be cut with the slice of a meat cleaver.

You see, although tributes could be replaced should another volunteer take their place, that was not to say it was a common occurrence. When it happened, if at all, it was only in the wealthier districts who had the resources to train those in pursuit of glory that could be earned from entering and winning the games. But even then, those were few among many and hardly anybody found themselves offering to sacrifice themselves, even if the tributes happened to be family.

Gilderoy stares in astonishment at the boy below him before he seems to regain his senses. “You volunteer?” he voices out, as if in question of Harry’s own sensibilities.

“Yes,” the boy spits out. In his peripheral, Harry can see the shocked faces of his Aunt and Uncle as they watch the boy who had been dumped on their doorstep all those years ago volunteer to take the place of his cousin.

Harry briefly meets the eyes of Dudley and the boy is gazing at him with an expression he couldn’t quite place. Like he was confused at the fact Harry would even offer to help.

To be honest Harry is confused with himself too.

Lockheart apparently feels the same as well for he’s become frazzled at his sudden outburst. “I-I’m sorry but-but the names have already been called and you'll have to wait until-”

“I said,” Harry snarls out and slowly, yet with a sureness in his steps, mounted the stage to which he knew there would be no stepping down from.

“I volunteer as tribute for District 10.”

A hush has fallen over the crowd and distantly Harry can hear the sounds of cattle from out in the fields. For a moment he wishes he’d been born as a cow. At least he would have had the freedom of the pastures and privilege of having food before being killed. Or maybe he would have lived his life unaware of what his fate held until the blade of a knife was put to his neck. Ignorance is bliss as he’d heard.

“Are you sure?” the Capitol escort asks once more and it occurs to Harry even the Capitol citizens must be aware of the dangers the game represented.

But the boy holds his head up high to meet the eyes of Lockheart, patience wearing thin. He had dug his grave and now he would lie in it.

The man must have seen the confrontational look in the boy's eyes because he becomes cowed and looks away.

“Of course, my apologies,” he murmurs to Harry before turning to Dudley. “Mister Dursley please return to your family it seems you are no longer a tribute.”

Dudley blinks and nods but it’s as if the words still haven’t reached him because he still has a glazed look in his eyes, like the scene before him is a dream.

Harry supposes it is a dream, a nightmare that is, but his cousin is already walking off the stage. He gives him one last look at Harry before stepping past him and the corner of his eye Harry sees Dudley give him a nod, as if volunteering to take his spot in a death tournament was what it had taken after all those years to earn his respect.

Besides him Lockheart prattles on, looking for any other volunteers who might have found themselves moved to do the same, but as expected, no one steps forward.

The weight of his actions suddenly settles on Harry’s shoulders as he gazes at the masses of District 10 before him, all all with varying degrees of emotion. From his view on the stage, he recognizes some faces from school though they had never talked, sees the faces of his co-workers and Harry distantly wonders if they’ll watch him die like that of the animals they butcher. He briefly catches sight of Dudley, who is now reunited with Petunia and Vernon.

The image of them, of family, causes him to choke up as he thinks of his own parents. He’d always known one day he'd probably see them again but apparently it would be sooner than he expected.

Harry wills himself not to cry because it’s too late for that. If Lavender could do it, so could he and thus steels his resolve. He would not give the cameras and all their watchers the satisfaction of seeing his warring emotions.

The Capitol did not deserve to see his tears.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the tributes from District 10, Lavender Brown and-” Gilderoy stops suddenly, as if it just occurred to him he’d never asked for the boy's name.

“Harry Potter,” Harry announces for him. Let them know the name of the boy who would face them head on no matter how hard they tried to break them. Bitterness swells on his tongue, and he belatedly realizes it is because his cheek is bleeding from being bitten so hard as he clenches his jaw.

Lockhart babbles on some more about honor and other Capitolistic propaganda but the people are like ghosts, with only the warm rustling of wind in the trees being the only sound in the square.

He distantly wonders what they see in the two tributes in front of them; a pretty girl who couldn’t even hold a knife and a slaughterhouse boy who had cried the first time he'd killed an animal.

The music of the Capitol anthem begins to play as the Reaping of District 10 for the 49th Hunger Games comes to an end and all Harry wants to become is deaf, to never have to listen to the sickening melody whose tune was made up of the notes of savagery and bloodshed.

The pieces of a game that had been set up long before he'd even been born have already been placed in their positions, but as Harry Potter gazed at the shuttering cameras before him, he knew that the first piece had been played in a game where checkmate meant death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha I ended up splitting the chapter into two given it was so long so y’all get a double update. Harry’s anger is my favorite to write because it wasn’t ever explored to deeply even in OOTP so that’ll definitely be a key component to his development :)


	3. Chapter 3 - Sacrificial Lamb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If y’all don’t like vomit scenes then fair warning for this chapter

Harry was as calm as one would expect him to be. Which was to say he wasn't calm at all. Not in the slightest.

As he waits bored in the room he’d been dumped in following the end of the Reaping, he reflects on the events that had happened after his idiotic display of foolishness.

As soon as the wretched anthem had finished its final note, both he and Lavender had been escorted through the doors of the justice building and separated into different rooms. Before they’re sent off to the Capitol each tribute gets a short amount of time to say what could be their final goodbyes to family and loved ones.

Harry is tempted to just leave the room and wait in the hallway. It’s not like anybody would come. He wasn’t close with anyone at school and he’d kept a good distance from all of his co-workers ever since he’d started working at the slaughterhouse. And the Dursley’s certainly wouldn’t come because who was he to know if they were even thankful for his moronic actions. They'd probably be happy to get rid of him once and for all. There was no one to come for him.

Just as he had been since the day he’d been dropped at the doorstep of his relatives, Harry Potter was completely and utterly alone.

He imagines the cameras will find delight in that fact; poor pitiful Potter with no one to say a goodbye too.

Well, there was at least _one_ person who would come he can think of but unfortunately she resided across the electric fences in the orchards of District 11.

Harry can’t help but groan as his thoughts turn towards Ginny. He’d didn’t know how he would, if he even could, break the news to the girl. He imagines how it would play out. She’d probably yell at him first, and with that mouth of hers he'd knew he’d get a good tongue lashing, and then she’d probably cry a little bit before yelling some more. The thought of it all is oddly comforting.

Boredom once again makes headway and Harry studies the room he’d been put in. It was certainly nicer than anything the Dursley’s owned with delicate china lined above the fireplace and an overstuffed armchair placed next to it. The carpet is plush and there is a mahogany desk set by the window. He’d opted to sit on the velvet settee instead of leaning against the wall given it felt as though his legs would give out on him, like that of a wobbling newborn calf

As he observes more and more of the room, Harry finds himself growing more and more annoyed in the face of such obvious wealth all stemming from the Capitol. The fire from before sputters and sparks as he falls into the dark recesses of his mind reserved for that of the Capitol.

It and it’s stupid fucking regime was the reason why he was even in this situation in the first place. Although there wasn’t a face to the Capitol itself, there was the President of it all. Hogwarts has cycled through its fair share of leaders but it was Hogwarts current one which made Harry’s blood boil the most. President Voldemort had been in power for the past eighteen years ever since he’d quelled the little rebellion which had killed Harry’s parents and replaced the old president who’d been accused of treason and executed.

Although Harry had never seen the man before, the hatred he held for him was unimaginable. Since the man had become President, the rules and noose of the Capitol had tightened as more measures to keep the districts subjugated were put in place be it increased surveillance, public executions, or more Capitol propaganda shoved down their throats. President Voldemort had even been the one responsible to keep the tradition of Hunger Games alive given that the President before him had been in the process of disassembling it.

The force of his anger for the man makes Harry consider throwing the desk chair against the wall. He wants to break every single piece of furniture in the stupidly decorated Capitol room until there is nothing left but their shattered and splintered remains.

But Harry forces himself to try extinguish the fire with reason. A tantrum would do nothing even if it would make him feel better in the moment. He would have to reserve his anger for when it really mattered because now that he was to be in the games, hot headedness could be just as deadly as any weapon.

So instead Harry closes his eyes, shutting out the room and all its irksome decorations and focuses on his breathing, the only thing he ever felt he could control.

In. Out. In. Out.

Although it takes far longer than he had ever needed in the past, the boy finds that he is slowly calming down, the boiling rage he feels returning to the usual simmering it normally was, like a tethered animal who paced under his skin, waiting to be unleashed. 

A knock on the door catches him off guard and the door creaks open to reveal the second shock of the day as the faces of Petunia and Dudley Dursley appear behind it, with a peacekeeper in tow. His Aunt's face is pinched, as if she’d just sucked on a lemon whereas Dudleys has a schooled expression on his.

“You have five minutes,” the peacekeeper tells them before leaving the three of them by themselves.

Harry makes no move towards the two and neither do they. It’s dead quiet for about a minute and he isn’t sure if they’re there to laugh in his face or congratulate him.

“Err- Hello,” he says, confused.

If it were even possible, Petunia lips purse even tighter and Harry wonders why they even bothered to come. The woman answers his question for him as she gives Dudley a slight push of encouragement.

“We’ve come to say goodbye,” she sniffs out. The obvious missing presence of Vernon Dursley does not escape Harry's notice but he doesn’t care. The man and him had never been on friendly terms.

“Well then, goodbye,” Harry says, straight to the crux of the matter. There wasn’t any point in beating around the bush and honestly Harry almost wishes the two of them hadn’t come if it meant he would have been saved from the stifling atmosphere.

Petunia briskly nods and with that she exits the room, leaving the two boys alone in the room. Apparently that had been all she could manage.

Another wave of silence descends and Harry can’t help but feel awkward. What exactly does one say in a situation like this? Dudley must be feeling the same because the silence stretches, causing the uncomfortableness to persist.

Out of the two of them, Dudley is the first one to break their standoff much to Harry’s relief, but he’s surprised given the boy's streak of stubbornness was like that of a bull.

“Thanks,” his cousin says quietly.

Harry only mutely nods in reply.

The other boy must have more to say because he takes a breath, collects himself, and continues on.

“I don’t know why you did it but-”

“Neither do I,” Harry retorts back. If the other boy was really going to question his life’s decisions now of all times Harry would kick him out, final goodbyes be damned.

Regret flashes across his cousin’s face, as if he'd rather he’d never stepped foot into the room, but nonetheless preservers on. “But thanks I guess.”

Harry almost laughs. Dudley is a man of many words.

The awkward tension is still hovering over the two and Harry shoves his hands in his pocket, his fingers brushing against the smooth skin of the apple Ginny had given him as he does so. The touch of it stirs him to action.

“Wait,” Harry says as he closes the gap between the two of them and draws the apple from his pocket, “I need you to do something for me.”

Dudley eyes the apple and Harry is almost worried he might eat it but the favor is too important for that.

“Listen,” he huffs out, knowing they probably only have a few seconds at most, though he is careful to keep his voice a whisper because who knows who might be outside the door listening in. “I need you to give this to a girl, her name is Ginny Weasley, she’s from District 11.”

Dudley’s eyebrows raise, no doubt wondering why Harry was mingling with a different district member.

Harry snaps his fingers underneath the boy's nose to make him pay attention, his words being important. “She has red hair, freckles, and a temper that'll make you wish you’d remain a tribute.”

His cousin swallows at the description and Harry is pleased the mention of Ginny strikes fear. She was a fearsome thing after all.

“She'll be waiting to meet me in the trading center where the cargo is being stored before being shipped. We always meet there after Reaping Day,” he instructs further.

“How am I supposed to even get in there, I’m not allowed,” Dudley asks as his eyebrows draw together.

“Just use my quota card from the slaughterhouse.” It's not like Harry was going to be needing it anyway. ‘You’ll find it hidden under the loose floorboard underneath my bed,’ he quickly adds.

Time was running out and Harry knows that this is his last chance to make amends. “Listen Dudley, I know that we don’t like each other, but please, just this once,” he pleads with the other boy.

Dudley flushes as if embarrassed by the insinuation of animosity the two had shared in the past but Harry still has one last piece to relay.

”Tell Ginny that I-” Harry stops, unsure of himself. Tell her what? Tell her that he was sorry for being an idiot. Tell her that he didn’t deserve someone like her. Harry wants to tell her so many things but he’ll never be able too and feels himself try to swallow the weakness clawing its way up his throat.

“Tell her I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

His cousin levels him with a gaze and for a second Harry is scared he won’t do it, that he'll just laugh in Harry’s face. But the boy only simply nods one last time and takes the apple from his hands.

Although he normally wouldn’t trust Dudley to such an important task, he feels that the boy will do this for him. After all, Harry had just saved his life out of all things.

There are no parting words, no tearful goodbyes, no family kisses which Harry is grateful for. There was too much bad blood between the two boys for them to hug and forgiveness could certainly not be earned in such a short time period but at least Harry didn’t have to die with any last regrets. The Dursley’s would be able to fend for themselves, more so now that they would be having one less mouth to feed.

Harry on the other hand. Well he’d probably be the first to go. The tributes always weeded out the ones like him, weak and unremarkable.

Luckily the awkward end to their goodbye is saved by the return of the peacekeeper from before, a signal that their time is up.

After Dudley leaves, there are no others who come see him and so Harry sits in silence. He comes to find that he hates it. Silence means he’s forced to return back to his thoughts and as always they turn themselves towards the games. Fuck. What he’d gotten himself into he didn’t know.

Harry had no idea what the gamekeepers had in mind because like every year, what environment the tributes fought in were a surprise until the events occurred. In the past the arenas had ranged from a scorching desert, a wet rainforest, the ruined remains of a city, there were so many it was hard to keep track of. A memorable one had been the year where the whole arena had been underwater and the tributes were forced to seek whatever little land they could find. There’d been a lot of drowning deaths that year and unsurprisingly a boy from District 4, who was known for fishing, had won.

The best he could hope for was something with places to hide. Harry liked to think he wasn’t a coward but even he knew when to lie low. He’d been doing it for eighteen years after all. Until now that was.

His nerves make a reappearance and desperately he gets up and tries to focus on counting the steps it takes to walk the entirety of the room, anything to distract himself. He even tries to open the door but finds it locked. They probably thought the tributes would try to run away or something.

Crossing over to the window Harry jiggles at it but to his avail it’s locked as well. The fall wouldn't have killed him anyway…….only like severely maimed.

~~~~~~~~~~

And that is how Albus Dumbledore finds Harry, who is still struggling to open the window to complete his suicide mission.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting something,” the man questions as Harry flings himself away from the window, unprepared for his sudden entrance.

“Ah- no sir, I- I was just,” Harry flounders trying to come up with an excuse. “I just needed some fresh air was all.”

There is a twinkle in the man's eye and it occurs to Harry that the victor standing before him is not the same as the one who he’d observed at the start of the Reaping. Though by all means the person idly standing in the room appeared like a genial old man, Harry can sense there is another layer, as if his appearance of a man losing his marbles is just a pretense.

The two regard each other though both lost in their own thoughts.

“Lemondrop,” the man offers, pulling out a shiny wrapped candy. Candies are something of a delicacy in the districts but given the man lived in the Victors Village he’d probably had an endless supply of them stashed away.

“Uh-no thank you sir,” Harry declines, slightly unnerved.

Unperturbed, the man simply shrugs and unwraps the delicate candy only to pop it in his own mouth.

Harry gives the man a strange look, wondering why he is there in the room in the first place.

“I’ve come to collect you and Miss Lavender,” the man responds, as if sensing Harry’s questions. He turns to leave the room and Harry follows him but almost bumps into the victor as he turns around rather suddenly.

“Before I forget, is there anything you would like to take with you to the Capitol, a keepsake if you will,” he asks as he peers at Harry through the thin spectacles that sit precariously atop his nose.

The boy in question feels like he is an insect pinned to a board under the man's examination. The question catches him off guard. He hadn’t known tributes were allowed to do that, but even so, he doesn’t have anything to bring with him. Expect. Harry remembers the silver chain Ginny had given him stored away but shakes his head. He couldn’t wear it. The sound of the bell would give him away in an instant or worse, give someone something to strangle him with.

“No,” he grits out tightly.

Either Dumbledore doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore Harry’s anger and pops another lemon drop in his mouth but nods in understanding.

Dumbledore's whole presence is throwing Harry off his game. He had thought he’d be treated to the mindless and inane chatter the man was so accustomed to but he doesn’t know what to think of this new found persona even as the said man opens the door for Harry with polite “after you”.

Relieved to be finally let out of the room that felt like a cage, he spots where the other tribute, Lavender Brown, is being escorted from a room across from him.

He can tell she’s been crying by the way her eyes are red and puffy but at least she was able to hold off until she had been behind closed doors.

Harry might have cried as well, although more so out of frustration, if he hadn’t found himself so exhausted. The two tributes don’t exchange any words and a squad of peacekeepers marches them to the entrance of the justice building.

Minerva Mcgonnicall meets the group at the door and her sour frown reminds Harry of one of the grumpy cats who hangs around the slaughterhouse. He wonders what is going through her head, wonders if she sees herself in the two tributes standing before her. The woman only stares at the two of them with tawny eyes as if imprinting their images to memory and maybe she was preparing herself for the eventual moment their images would appear on the screen when the dead were announced. Harry is at least thankful that she does not coddle them with words of condolence or false promises.

A simple “Good luck” is her only advice. 

Harry can’t help but snort out loud this time. In the face of the games, luck was hard to find.

Outside the justice building, the temporary platform has already been taken down but the cameras are still there. Buzzards waiting for any morsel they could collect. Harry imagines crushing each camera underneath the heel of his foot but his eyes are pulled to the shiny exterior of a Capitol car that pulls up to the building’s steps, its engine a purr.

The boy finds himself slightly jealous because although he hated the displays of wealth and extravagance the Capitol liked to flaunt at every opportunity, he can not help but run his hands over the buttery smooth leather of the car seats as he slides in. He wonders if it came from one of the cows he slaughtered.

Lavender takes the other side and Harry’s senses the girl turns towards him but he makes himself look out the window instead as images of the Butchery flash by, people of District 10 stopping to see the car carrying the tributes pass by.

While by no means did Harry dislike the girl, he doesn’t make any efforts to be friendly. Getting attached to a person only made things more difficult for when it came to the games, even a little hesitation would cost him.

Said girl regards the boy sitting next to her but makes no further attempts to instigate conversation as if sensing her fellow tribute isn’t in the particular mood to talk.

Thankfully, the ride does not take long given the train station dedicated for the district is near the trading center and it is much faster to reach by car than on foot. As the expensive car pulls up to the station, Harry can’t help but again note the obvious contrast it makes, streamlined and powerful, against the poor imitations of infrastructure District 10 has for its buildings.

Stepping out of the car, the flash of a camera momentarily blinds him, it’s brightness spooking him like a deer. His eyes adjust and he wants to rip the hair out of his head as a flood of reporters press against the two tributes. It takes everything in him to not give them a rather rude hand gesture and he struggles to remain blank, to keep a facade of emotionless and uncaring.

Besides him, he catches Lavender soaking up the attention, drawing them in like flies to honey, smiling and waving as she does so. Harry is impressed at her switch from grief to pandering. He’ll admit he may have underestimated the girl. She's a good actress

The two share a brief look and Harry sees a similar disdain flaring up in her eyes despite the smile still splayed across her face.

Fortunately the reporters and cameraman are forced to back off as the tributes board the train although Harry is sure they would have followed them on board if they had the chance. Probably advertise it as behind the scenes footage or something like that, anything to catch the attention of Capitol viewers.

The stainless steel doors snap shut behind the two and both of the tributes let out at breath now that they're finally out of the limelight. That would be something Harry would have to get used to, the constant presence of cameras up in his face. At least the ones the Capitol employed were subtle in their locations.

Without warning, the train suddenly starts and Harry almost steps on Lavender’s foot, its sudden speed catching him off guard. For all that he hated the Capitol, he could not help but marvel at the technology they employed. Sleek and high powered, it made the surrounding districts look like cavemen stuck in the prehistoric era.

Unsure of what to do exactly, the two of them stand in the little holding area but their waiting is interrupted as Gilderoy Lockhart, in all his smiling glory, glides in. He’d exchanged the cloak from earlier for a suit coat that is just as gaudy as the rest of the peacock’s outfit.

“Come, come now, no need to gawk, you’ll certainly get used to it,” he winks out in greeting.

Harry pushes the urge to choke the man down and instead he follows him, Lavender close on his heel, as they are shown the different compartments of the train, each as lavishly furnished as the last.

A small grace is given as the Capitol escort leaves the two to their own devices with a warning dinner will be soon and Harry's stomach growls as he hadn’t had anything to eat that day besides the morning mush he’d made before he started his shift.

Lavender disappears into her given room and Harry does so as well, interested to investigate the contents of it.

The room itself is even more finely decorated than the justice building room he had previously been in and again Harry finds himself annoyed at the ostentatiousness of it all. A large bed with a fluffy comforter catches his attention the most but Harry opts to explore the adjoined bathroom. It has a marble white aesthetic, complete with a clawfoot bathtub and walk-in shower.

At the sight of the shower, Harry quickly sheds his clothes, wanting to wash away all the lingering emotions of the day. At least it was better than the stream he’d planned on using. The equipment itself is far nicer than the showers at the slaughterhouse with too many buttons to count and an array of different soaps that would have put his own homemade ones to shame. After luxuriating in the warm water until even that turns cold, Harry emerges fresh faced and feeling significantly better.

Opening one of the dresser drawers which sat underneath a large gilded mirror, he finds them filled to the brim with expensive Capitol clothes that no doubt would have cost him a year's worth of meager wages. Sorting through them all is a difficult task given their flamboyant colors are reminiscent too much of the Capitol's garish fashion until a soft black piece catches his eye.

Fitting given he was dressing for his funeral after all.

It doesn’t take long for Harry to tour the rest of the train until he finds the dining area complete with a large table and with what Harry can only guess is a bar. Sitting at the counter is the calm and collected figure of Albus Dumbledore, a book in his lap.

Harry finds he is surprised as he would have thought McGonagall would be the one to mentor them like the previous year. Maybe they were switching things up. He wants to question the man, wants to ask him why he’s there when he hadn’t assumed the role of mentor for the past several years but he doesn’t get the chance too as Lockheart and Lavender appear from behind him. 

“Lovely! You’re all in time,” Lockheart chirps out while clapping his hands together. Though the food isn’t quite ready, Gilderoy fills the silence with inane chatter about how excited he is for them to be participating and how relieved he was that the Reaping went so well.

Harry makes sure to tune him out as he seats himself at the dinner table.

Thankfully the man's one sided conversation is interrupted with the ring of a bell and they’re all saved with the arrival of dinner.

Course after course comes out and when Harry thinks it’s over, another appears to take its place and soon the dinner table is piled high with food. He’s not quite sure where to start. Even Lavender, who sits across from him, looks a little timid at the absurd amount.

Harry decides he’ll stick to garden salad and delicious sauteed vegetables but still forces himself to take a portion of the cooked lamb. Ever since he had started working in the slaughterhouses of District 10, he'd found his appetite for meat had diminished.

But he would need the protein given he didn't want to be branded a weakling. Harry had been considered weak all his life, both by himself and others, and while he certainly didn't plan on winning the games, he at least wouldn't be going down without a fight.

“Yes yes eat up you need a little more meat on your bones,” Gilderoy unhelpfully comments.

Harry's patience runs thin on a daily basis and almost snaps with the escort's words, someone who has probably never gone hungry a day in his life. _Only because I've starved my whole life_ is what he wants to say but the tribute only shovels more food in his mouth to stop him from making any snide remarks.

~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner is perhaps the only highlight of his day, besides his meeting with Ginny but the affair feels like it lasts far too long and Harry can’t help but groan as he falls back against his chair, his stomach full to bursting. Even their little vegetable garden at the Dursleys wasn't on the same level of the decadence of the Capitol food.

Feeling full and decidedly tired, Harry wants to go to bed even if the light still seeps through the window but he’s dragged by Lockheart to a train carriage where a tv is hung in the wall, plush chairs surrounding it. It's one of the nice ones like that at the train station, displaying every image in crisp and clear quality.

The four of them each pick a different chair, Harry’s by the window, and he watches as with a press of a button, the screen turns from back to white before it is replaced with the logo of the Capitol in all its glory. Unfamiliar with the technology, Harry watches as Guildroy navigates the controls until he finds what he’s looking for and sits back with a triumph puff of his chest.

At the end of Reaping day, everyone is made to watch a recap of it across all districts. Even though Harry knows the Reapings themselves aren't that long, in actuality there only if at most half an hour long due to all the talking, it still feels like it takes a lifetime. 

In spite of himself, Harry finds himself watching the screen as two Capitol commentators start the program. It's a man and a woman, both dressed in hideous Capitol attire who are speaking in the distinct lilting accent all Capitol citizens seem to have.

The sound of the anthems plays for a moment and the food from dinner turns in his stomach. Although Harry doesn't want to watch, doesn't want to look at the faces of the other children who will be sharing a space in the Games, he makes himself anyway if only to see just who exactly his competition is.

District 1, known for its production of luxury items, is the first to appear and from there they’ll continue on numerical order, methodical as always.

As the commentators make their usuals quirks and observations, Harry tries to not listen to the names of those chosen. Names only made things harder. A person with a name was harder to kill than a face with no name.

District 1 is much more wealthier than that of 10 and it’s easy to see as Harry watches a boy with a streak of gray in his hair and a girl with flaxen blonde hair are called, both dressed far nicer than he had been in his old clothes.

“Oohhhh next up is Sluggy’s District,” Gilderoy exclaims and the screen dissolves as that of District 2 flashes across the screen. Most victors from the games have come from this district, renowned for their masonry.

Harry feels a chill go up his spine as he watches a wild haired girl bound up the stage. Black frizzy locks frame her face and there is a dangerous look to her eyes, like a crazed animal who will bite its foot off.

Harry can’t help the shivers that break out across his skin.The male tribute is chosen next and Harry’s breath catches in his throat as the camera pans to the boys face.

He’s very handsome, with a straight nose and a sharp jaw, but Harry finds himself most captured by the intensity of the boy's gaze. His eyes are dark but not from fear. Harry can't help but regard him a little closer. Taking in the rest of his appearance, besides his obvious handsomeness, even though the boy does not appear as muscled as previous victors from District 2, he is quite tall, something Harry envies him for.

He hadn’t been able to catch the boy’s name, although it had sounded something common. Harry is tempted to ask Lavender but he doesn't want the other to see his interest.

Resigning himself to inquire later, Harry instead focuses as how the District 2 tribute walks up the platform, which again, is much nicer than the one in District 10, like a king ascending his throne.

When he faces the crowd, it looks as if the crown of victory has already been crowned upon his head.

Harry gets the impression that had he any money, he’d bet it all on the boy before him.

The dark haired girl next to him is a whole different story though who only lets out a harsh giggle which causes Harry’s hackles to rise. The pair of them together are deadly and threatening.

For a brief second, the boy seems to spot the camera and as he looks head on it, it’s as if Harry is staring into a bottomless pit, entranced at the dark eyes which hold a hunger he knows well.

The spell breaks and it's on to District 3 but no other tributes stand out that much to him as the boy does.

The two from District 8 catch Harry’s attention only for the fact that they are clearly the youngest so far out of the bunch. The girls pigtails make her look even younger and her wire rimmed glasses do nothing to hide the tears streaming down her face. The boy on the other hand has a blank stare, and Harry grimaces as he takes in the large ears, wide eyes, and the fact the boy, _no_ , he corrects himself, the child is shaking like a leaf in the wind.

Their images are on the screen but for a moment before they’re replaced with fields and fields of grain, golden and bountiful. District 9 is next and Harry feels unease as they approach closer and closer to 10.

The girl from this district is unassuming, plain brown hair, plain clothes, plain everything. The boy who is called however certainly makes an impression for he's quite handsome as well. While the tribute from District 2’s looks were dark and deadly, like a viper waiting to strike from the grass, this one is like a field of wheat underneath a shining sun. A lot of pretty faces apparently. The Capitol always liked a pretty face. A shame that they would probably be torn apart.

While scrutinizing the boy, Harry finds that he is blushing and quickly looks away from the screen only to catch Lavender’s eyes and sees that the girl is blushing as well. For a moment the two share a smile of commiseration before Harry remembers that he’s supposed to be hostile and breaks their eye contact.

The camera's on the screen zoom into the crowd where cries of a man ring out.

“That’s my son, my son,” he sobs out and has to be physically restrained by two peacekeepers as the boy only gives his father a pained look.

The image wavers but for a minute before the pastures of District 10 and a flocks of sheep and roaming cattle fill the screen.

Harry can't help but feel his stomach clench as the familiar image of the Butchery’s square appears. He watches and given the cameras are zoomed out, he can see where he is in the crowd though his back is turned. Enraptured, Harry sits as he watches the Harry Potter on the screen march forward though when the cameras turn their lens on him, he looks like a soldier facing a firing squad, a frown etched upon his face. 

The food from dinner threatens to make a reappearance but the tribute forces himself to keep it down, at least until he’s in the safety of his room. The whole tense scene plays out and then the video morphs into the orchards of District 11.

Had Ginny gotten his message yet? Did Dudley even keep his word? Maybe Harry had misplaced his trust and he’d been wrong. Well if Dudley hadn’t given the message to Ginny already she would certainly know now.

Harry is at the edge of his seat, gripping the armchair so tightly it might rip. His heart is thumping like a jackrabbit, breathing shallow, as he watches the Capitol escort, a woman this time, pull oh so delicately a slip of paper out.

She reads the name and a tidal wave of relief washes over him.

It’s not Ginny. 

It's a girl called Bertha instead.

He tries to see if he can catch a glimpse of Ginny and the sight of her signature red hair in the crowd but there's too many people and the cameras focus themselves back on the Capitol escort as she draws the slip out for their male victim but Harry doesn’t care. Reassurance fills him up at knowing that Ginny is safe. She's safe for another year. Just like he'd promised her.

His comfort is quickly shattered when the name of the male tribute is called however.

It’s Fred Weasley. 

The name rings of familiarity and it suddenly clicks as horror cascades over him. 

A cry echoes out from the speakers as the cameras zoom in on a girl and a boy gripping onto her, both their faces pale underneath the splatter of freckles as they watch their sibling board the stage steps like a man sent to the gallows. 

Harry barely has enough time to let out a strangled excuse before he finds himself kneeled on the floor of his bathroom as he heaves up the contents of his dinner.

There were only three times Harry could ever recall being physically sick in his life.

Once, when he was younger, he was struck down with a fever so bad he’d thought he might actually die. But little six year old Harry had been born a fighter and so through chills and constant vomiting of anything that was attempted to be fed to him, finally, after three long days, the fever had broken.

The second had been the time Harry had gone for days without food, whatever scraps they could get had gone to the Dursley’s instead. He’d been so weak and delirious that when he showed up to his shift the slaughterhouse manager had sent him home but not without slipping a piece of parcel wrapped meat into the folds of his clothing, no doubt pitying the boy.

Harry had cooked it as soon as he’d gotten home and gobbled a good portion of it before immediately vomiting back up, his stomach unused to the meat after having gone so long without it. 

The third time had been the first time he'd ever had to kill an animal at the slaughterhouse. It hadn’t gone well to say the least. His nerves had got the better of him and as he 'd drawn the knife, twelve year old Harry had faltered midway through. The cut hadn’t done the job and the animal had been left bleeding and still alive.

At the sight of its pain he’d barely made it to the shared bathroom before he’d tossed it all. Ever since then he had made sure to be quick and efficient so as to end their suffering.

Harry heaves as his stomach constricts again and he retches once more as the rest of the garden salad follows the lamb.

It seems that was all that was left because after that there is nothing more but acid and blood. It feels like it takes forever before Harry’s body decides to have pity on him and stop its upheaval of his stomach contents although his head is throbbing like someone had smashed in with a mallet.

Leaning back against the wall, the boy lets his cheek rest on the cool tile of the bathtub. He’s sweaty and tears have collected in his eyes, both from emotion and from the violent upheaval of dinner. Panic is crawling up his throat and Harry tries to collect his breath even as he begins to hyperventilate for the second time that day.

In. Out. In. Out. 

He really hopes that the walls are soundproof because he certainly didn’t want them the others hear him hashing his guts out and his wheezing breaths.

Breathing deeply through his nose, the boy attempts to concentrate despite the pounding headache wreaking havoc in his skull. A flash of red hair and tears materialize against the dark of his eyelids and thinking about it almost causes Harry to be sick again but he forces it back down.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

He rests his head between his hands and curls into a ball. The small space he’d created alleviated things slightly.

The panic attack persists for a few more minutes before he’s able to regain coherence, his cheeks sticky with tears and sweat.

Harry knows he can't hide in the bathroom forever so he staggers to his feet, swaying dizzily after being on the ground for so long, and goes to turn on the sink faucet. Uncaring for the rules of etiquette, the boy hangs his head like a dog and gulps mouthfuls of water from the faucet to ease the acidic burning in his throat. He intermittently stops to gurgle and spit more water, trying to remove the taste of bile on his tongue.

When his stomach is full and the taste is no longer as prominent, Harry removes his glasses to splash some of the water on his face in an effort to clear his mind. When he places them back on, he doesn’t recognize the reflection staring back at him.

It’s as if the boy in the mirror is a shadow of his younger self, thin and gaunt, their red rimmed eyes, his mother's eyes, tired and questioning.

He grips the counter and tries to breathe evenly even as the flashes of red are replaced by the smile of his parents from his precious photograph. Harry hopes they’re not watching him, hopes they’re not watching as the boy they gave birth to is beginning to lose his grip on reality.

For a moment he wishes he had the picture, which was still stored away in its hidden space to comfort him but in the last minute he had decided it was best to be left behind. He didn't want to bring the memory of his parents, so full of life and love, onto the battlefield. 

Finally calmed down to a respectable degree and no longer at risk of having another go at the toilet, Harry returns to the lounge room but is disappointed to find that Lockheart had paused the recap at the time he had left. He had hoped they'd finish it without him but to no such luck. Apparently they wanted to make him suffer through the rest of it.

The persons of the room all stare at him as he sits himself back onto the previously abandoned chair and Harry realizes they’re waiting for an explanation.

How could he explain to them that he knew the girl on the screen given fraternizing with other districts was prohibited after all. Although he was no longer in District 10, Harry knew that the tributes were always watched even if it looked as though they weren’t. There were probably cameras recording every move and anything he said that could implicate Ginny would be disastrous.

“Uh, sorry about that-er dinner was apparently a little too rich,” he lies to them. “Didn’t sit all too well.”

His face must still be green because Lockheart nods sympathetically but there is a knowing expression on Dumbledore's face, as if he knows Harry is lying. He catches Lavender eyeing him too, and there is a look of worry and concern on her face as if the girl actually cared whether he was okay or not.

“Well then,” Gilderoy announces, taking command of the room once more, “if everything’s in order let's finish.”

The tv flickers to life from where it had grown dark and Harry is glad their eyes are on it instead of him. But this time he doesn't watch even if there are only two more tributes left to go and instead focuses on the train window and watches as rolling hills pass, his mind preoccupied with distinctively not looking at the t.v screen.

Fortunately the recordings only last a few minutes more and finally the recap is over with.

Harry doesn’t bother to stick around, already exhausted and overcome with the day's events. It’s almost unbelievable how much had happened. Just that morning he’d started his shift at the slaughterhouse and now here he was, a lamb in his own way, being led to the slaughter.

He locks the door behind him as he enters his room because as much as Harry just loved the people with him, he doesn’t want them intruding in what little private space he had.

The boy briefly considers taking another shower if only because he still feels the grimy taste and feel one has after vomiting but the lure of the luxurious bed is more tempting and he falls with a moan onto the soft mattress and warm comforter.

Making short work of his clothes, he strips them off and throws them onto a pile on the floor because the Capitol quality to them feels too constricting and uncomfortable, the collar of it like a noose around his neck. Harry can’t believe he ever took his old oversized hand me downs for granted. 

The silk sheets are smooth against his skin but he wishes he were back home, safe in his little shabby cot. Maybe this whole thing is just one long daydream Harry’s mind conjured because of Reaping Day stress and any moment he’ll wake up and everything will be normal.

A voice in his heart tells him to stop lying to himself. 

As he watches the lights of whatever district they’re traveling through blink through the window, it is a mercy sleep claims him swiftly as tries not to think about the tears of a crying redhead that are then swallowed by a sharp smile and a pair of dark eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooh we are gaining traction here folks. What y’all think? I hope you can guess at who the other tributes are. Next chapter we get to meet Tom’s POV and boy am I nervous.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Monster in the Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for animal death but that’s to be expected with the likes of Tom Riddle

From the moment he had been born, Tom Riddle knew that he was destined for greatness.

It was the kind of greatness that would make men fall to their knees and prostrate themselves before him. It was the kind of greatness that would go down in the history books the local District 2 school had them read every Wednesday when their lessons on the Capitol's past were given. Yes, the boy would rewrite it all without a doubt.

But Tom Riddle had not been born great though and that was a fact the boy could not deny no matter how much it irked him. No, he had been born and then promptly discarded like a piece of rubbish, like he was insignificant.

As a child, the other children in the community home had never let him forget it either. To them he had been nothing more than a cocky boy who had to be taught how the ways of the world worked; lesson number one had been an explicit physical demonstration provided specially by Billy Stubbs to indicate where exactly Tom was at on the food chain.

So no, Tom Riddle may not have been born great but that was not to say he would not become it. 

Sitting atop the ledge of the community home roof he'd been dumped at and subsequently grown up in, the boy watches as the first peek of dawn crept its way across the horizon. 

It was a routine he did every morning, had done ever since he’d found the spot when he’d been exploring the nooks and crannies for a space away from the other children. For the past few years he’d awaken at the crack of sunrise to watch the sun spread its golden rays across the mountain tops as he prepared himself for whatever lay in store for each day.

The lights of District 2 slowly flickered on as people began about their day far earlier than normal but today was a special day, one Tom had waited for all year; it was Reaping Day.

It was a day to commemorate the defeat of Hogwarts districts against the Capitol and the preface for the Capitol event known as the Hunger Games.

Though the districts had certainly been punished for their insurgency, to drive the knife in even deeper they were forced every year to put their children up for auction and be randomly selected to compete in said games.

Despite their annual occurrence, the games had almost been dismantled had it not been for Hogwarts' current President, Voldemort, who’d stepped into play.

Although Tom himself was a member of a society that deemed him and the other districts second class citizens, he would give the man due credit. 

Voldemort had risen to power in such a short span and Tom admired the way people couldn’t even bear to say his name out loud and others reportedly quivered in his wake. The man himself had even managed to squash a little rebellion that had happened around the time Tom had been born, like it was nothing more than a meager annoyance. 

But even if he valued such things, that was not to say Tom respected the President in all his ways.

President Voldemort was cutthroat and vicious and from what rumors he had heard, the man was easily angered to bloodlust. That was one thing Tom did not understand about him. Voldemort was above them all so why waste needless blood when there were so many other ways to instill fear. Force always inspired unrest and unrest lead to uprisings.

Tom was a perfect example of it after all, although he was not the same as those ignorant groups who had rebelled before.

Distantly, the boy watched as a group of clouds gathered in the sky, and the morning air began to smell metallic, a message signalling the soon to be onset of rain. That might be a problem given District 2 was a series of villages valued for their mining, stretched out across a mountain region which experienced flash floods any time it rained heavily. It was a laborious ordeal, to have to be stuck in the quarry and picking away at rock until one's hand bled and blistered.

Tom, fortunately had escaped such a fate unlike the other older children from his past, as he had his own duties to attend to as Head Boy of the children's quarters at the community home. Each district had something like it and the community homes were where the unwanted were sent to rot away. All nameless nobodies be it orphan, widow, disabled, etc.

Though the other children had made sure he knew that they thought the boy wasn’t any better than them, that hadn’t stopped the child from climbing his way up the ladder, dredging himself from the throes of obscurity and normalcy. Tom Riddle knew that he didn't want to be another nobody.

As dawn finally overtook the sky and the last of night disappeared, the boy could hear the distant creaking and groaning as the rest of the other inhabitants of the community home slowly began to awaken.

It would be his job to gather up the younger children and make sure they were ready for today’s special events. School had been canceled given Reaping Day was a Capitol ordained holiday and though the youth excelled in any subject that was given to him, he was quite happy. He had a few chores of his own he needed to attend to and the extra time meant he could easily complete them.

~~~~~~~~~~

Waking up the children proves to be an ordeal as they groan and simply pull back the covers over their head. He is tempted to snap at them but they eventually all pull themselves together and drudge on down to the small dining hall.

The Head Boy would no doubt have to comfort them all later over breakfast, because as much as they liked to put on a brave face, he knows it’s all a facade. Being Head Boy meant his role was protector and caretaker for the children and he had to step in when the other adults were busy. As much as Tom despised the act, the job at least did have some perks. Not only did he have his own room to himself but his duties allowed him full reign over his little kingdom of subjects.

The youth would never hurt them, he wasn’t that careless, and he certainly didn’t care what activities they did but he had made sure that they all adored him. Adoration was the key for Tom to plant little seeds of doubt into their young minds. After all was said and done they would only need a little nudge from his guiding hand and they’d all bend to his will. Kindness was something of a commodity in Hogwarts and Tom had made sure to master the art of niceties no matter how false they may have been.

Rounding up the last of the stragglers, he stops right outside a door with dark paint peeling off of it. A warning knock is all he gives as he enters and finds the resident of the room sitting in a chair, looking out the window.

Her name was Nagini and she was what Tom might have considered his only “friend”. 

The dark haired woman was far older than him and though Tom had asked around how’d she’d come to live at the community house no one quite knew. Nagini had simply appeared one day and the others simply accepted her presence though the woman never spoke, not even once. In his childhood the other children of the house had teased and mocked the woman for her muteness but not Tom. Though Nagini may or may not have been able to speak, nothing ever escaped the notice of her crafty eyes.

He wasn’t quite sure how their tenacious bond had formed but he supposed it had grown over time as he had chosen to read his books in her room in order to escape the torment of the community children he grew up with. No one ever bothered him when he was with Nagini who watched over him like a surrogate mother. The woman even brought him other gifts of small handmade jewelry and stolen trinkets so Tom could not help but feel a sort of odd affection for the woman who enjoyed his company.

“It’s time for breakfast,” Tom called out to her although he was sure she could tell by the patter of tiny feet outside her door.

The woman didn’t turn away but only offered a wave of the hand.

If anyone else had dismissed him in such a way Tom would have been furious but he’d known Nagini for some time now and the gesture was a familiar one of understanding. The woman had heard his words and she would come down when she felt like it. Perceiving that she was in a mood, Tom left her to her thoughts for he could relate to wanting to be left alone.

But there was no time for him to sit and contemplate in his room, not when there were things that still needed to be done and so the boy set off to complete the difficult chore of babysitting before he could finally move on to his own tasks.

~~~~~~~~~~

As always, the Hub is bustling with movement and sound as Tom steps into the space. While technically illegal, it was not hard for the peacekeepers to turn a blind eye to the Hub and its activities given that District 2 was in the good graces of the Capitol after all. 

Though it was too early to be as busy as it normally was, there were still groups of people going about their daily activities. Perhaps if it were any other day he might have engaged the shopkeepers in some conversation, maybe attempted to bargain out a deal for some of their items but not today. Tom is at the Hub for some important business and he doesn’t dawdle, not that he would even if he had free time.

Like a panther, he stalks his way through the throngs and finally makes it to the Den where smoke hangs in the air like a heavy cloud. In the area are a group of tables and Tom observes as a haggard looking man throws his arms up and storms off from one of the tables. Though Tom wasn’t there to gamble, it was an opportunity he couldn’t resist. 

“Good morning gentlemen,” he purrs out, sliding in to take the empty seat the man had abandoned. The other men gathered around the table only give grunts of assessment as the boy joins in.

They don’t question his intrusion given most people knew of Tom Riddle in District 2. He was as charming as they come and with a pretty face to boot it was hard to dislike the boy.

“Nothing good about it in my books,” a man covered in the fine dust one collected from working in the mines snorted. Simon Connor was his name and Tom knew the man worked in the Quarry’s in order to feed what little food he could provide to his family of five.

“You’re only mad you lost the last round,” Micheal Corner, who works at the local blacksmith fashioning tools for the quarry workers, mutters. From experience Tom knew that the man's hands were always greasy from the oil he used to shine the metal tools.

“I don’t want to hear you two ladies jabber,” Evan Thorndyke, the man who was in charge of the Den and it’s illicit activities, gruffly says. “Place your bets already.”

The first time Tom had ever wandered in the Den, hoping to make connections and spin the web of his a little bigger, he’d discovered just how useful gambling could be.

Oh he had certainly lost the first few times he had tried to play but Tom had always been clever and once he learned the rules of their games it wasn't long before he began to win, even if he cheated here and there.

The men were always a little twitchy, save for Evan who had a poker face better than Tom’s, which worked in Tom's favor for their expressions always came more freely as their minds focused on the game. It had been laughable how twelve year old Tom had been able to empty their pockets much to the surprise of the men who had underestimated him.

Tom waited as they all placed their money on the table, each man calling out a different name of someone who they thought would be Reaped that day. The higher number you rolled the better your odds were and the first person to reach twenty four points, the same as the number of a Hunger Games tributes, would win. It was a game they only could play once a year and though it may have seemed cruel, it was all in good jest.

“I’ll place a bet on myself,” Tom smirks as he takes a bag of coins he kept stored in his pocket for occasions such as this and dumps it into the circle.

The group of gathered men all give him wary glances as if he were crazy.

In all consideration, Tom supposed he was at times. Both madness and greatness were two sides of the same coin after all.

“Seriously you?” Another man, this one clean shaven, Augustus Warner, questions flabbergasted. “You’re probably the one with least amount of slips out of all you young folks.”

Tom shrugged. “ I don’t know, I feel particularly lucky today.”

Whether he was referring to the bet or the Reaping the men didn’t question.

“Don’t pester the boy Warner,” Evan scolds the man before turning to Tom. “How 'bout since it’s Reaping Day you go first.”

In reply Tom picks up the two dice sitting in the middle of the table and flings them with a quick flick of his wrist. The dice rolls before falling flat and the group leans in to see the score.

“Some luck you got boy, it’s the dogs throw for you,” Simon guffaws.

A pair of snake's eyes stare up at them all, the two dots a dark contrast against a sea of white. The odds of rolling such a feat was a one out of thirty six. It was rather fitting given there would be two tributes chosen from each district but it would not help him win the game.

As Tom is considering the outcome, he feels a presence behind him. So he had made it after all.

The youth lets out a sigh as he leans back in his chair, as if saddened by the loss of his money. “It seems I’m needed elsewhere unfortunately. I’ll call the game to you.” 

He quickly rises from his seat but the men’s eyes stay trained on the bag on money.

“Enjoy your winnings gentlemen. Now if you’ll excuse me.” The boy dipped his head and left them to split the coins.

His important business had finally arrived and Tom turns to meet the figure of Barty Crouch Jr.

Barty was a mousy boy who was a year his junior but the boy had a sharp mind and was rather good at being told what to do.

Without a word Tom walks away from the Den and finds a space in the Hub he knows is private. Barty only follows after him but Tom can tell there is something off in his movements, as if he is a mouse caught in a trap with nowhere to go.

“I’m assuming you come with good news Barty.”

The boy only twitches under Tom's gaze and hangs his head. The action alone makes it clear that he did not in fact, come bearing good news.

Tom lets out a carefully controlled exhale. “I thought I’d made myself clear when I gave you your orders." Leaning into the other boy's personal space, the older boy makes sure the two are looking eye to eye even as Barty flinches at the closeness. “I don’t tolerate inadequacy.” 

“Yes sir I know,” Barty says, a beet red blush burning across his face and the boy averts his eyes as he shuffles his feet. “But I did manage to gain a meeting with Amy Bishop” he quickly adds in an attempt to redeem himself.

While it wasn’t what Tom had wanted in the first place, it would have to be enough. Everything rested on it. From the corner of his eye, he catches the way Barty rubs his forefinger against his thumb, a nervous tick he had, and he realizes that there is still something left that the boy hasn’t disclosed. 

“What is it,” he demands.

Barty cowers even more but he’d rather experience his leader's wrath upfront rather than keeping it a secret and Tom finding out about it later. “Well, the-the thing is she wants you to visit with me though," the younger boy hesitantly admits, curling into himself as he waited for his leader's reaction.

Hearing his follower’s words, Tom couldn’t help but grind his teeth together.

To cull the irritation he felt, Tom let's Barty to stumble after him as he exits the noisy interior of the Hub.

No wonder the boy had been nervous when he’d first approached given Amy Bishop was one of the few people who genuinely got on Tom's nerves. The girl was vapid and boring with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Some people may have considered Tom Riddle to be callous but at least his words were wrapped in subtleties and intricacies that went over most people's heads. Amy was cruel in that she cared not for others feelings as she teased them with cutting remarks.

“If I must.” The older boy suddenly stopped midstep and turned around so fast Barty almost ran into him. “But so help me Barty if you are unable to complete the task you will have wished you’d been chosen as tribute,” he hissed.

Caught in the glower of the older boy, Barty only gulped and nodded his understanding.

Good mood now gone, Tom changed course and began walking in the direction of District 2’s Justice Building where the mayor and her family stayed, Barty trailing behind him by a few steps. Although he would have preferred he didn’t spend Reaping Day in the company of Amy Bishop it would be a small price he would have to pay for the pursuit of his goal.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Justice Building loomed tall and proud, casting the two boys in its shadow. As Tom pulls on the large ornate door knocker that decorates the front entrance, he takes a second to both compose himself and prepare for the inevitable personified human headache that was Amy Bishop.

“Sir if I may-”

“Quiet,” Tom hisses. Had the boy just done his job as he had been ordered too Tom wouldn’t have found himself in this situation. “I don't want to hear excuses only results.”

He levels Barty with one more glare. When everything was said and done he would make sure that the other boy wouldn’t forget what happened to those who could not meet his expectations. “I expect you still remember your assignment.”

The warning is the last thing Barty receives and he doesn’t have time to reply given Tom is already rapping the metal bar against the hardwood of the door.

No sooner has he let go of the handle when the doors swung open to reveal the expectant and flushed face of Amy Bishops. She must have been waiting for them the whole time, like a dog waiting for it’s master.

“Oh Tom! I’ve been expecting you,” the girl squeals out excitedly and said boy forced himself to not sidestep the hug the girl gave as she flung herself at him but he could not help but wince as she stepped on his toes． 

“My apologies Amy, I got wrapped up in some personal business,” he smoothly greets her in reply as the girl pulls on his hand and drags him into the building with Barty hesitantly following after the pair.

“Oh no I understand Tom you must be so busy as of late. Taking care of children must be so tiring.” 

Tom cracks a smile as if he had found the girl’s joke humorous.

“Yes they certainly are. They remind me of someone in particular especially.” The jab goes unnoticed and Tom can’t help but mentally sigh. He had much better things to do with his time than entertaining lovesick school girls.

“Would you like a tour of the house, this is your first time here after all,” Amy asks, desparate to impress the boy before her while Barty hangs back in the background having been already forgotten.

Tom accepts her offer eagerly. “That would be lovely Amy.”

The girl beams up at him, pleased at having his undivided attention on her. She had always liked Tom Riddle from the moment she’d laid eyes on him and was overcome with delight at the fact that he was standing next to her, in her own home of all places. Her mother had told her that she was too young for boys but when a boy like Tom showed interest she couldn’t help but go against the rules.

As the two begin their tour of the building, Tom resists the urge to leave as the girl blabbers on and on, on all manner of irrelevant topics all the while hanging on to him like a leech. He was tempted to shrug her off given that he prized his personal space but he would put his comfort aside if it meant having the girl on good terms. She was his ticket out after all.

He does make sure he gives her a listening ear as she talks though, appearing as if he was by all means interested in their conversation with a few well placed nods here and there.

Spurred on by his attention, the girl only presses herself closer and Tom gives her a warm smile in return, careful to conceal too many teeth. Satisfaction creeps it’s way up his spine as the girl blushes and averts her eyes, becoming even more distracted with the way he intentionally shifts under her hand. He swallows the smirk threatening to appear.

Tom knew how he affected people. He’d experienced it all his life after all. Heard it in the whispers at school said from behind gossiping girls hands, saw it in the way the occasional drunk man in the Hub looked at him with hungry eyes when they thought the boy wasn’t looking; felt it in the way his little group of followers revered him as though he were a god walking among mortals.

Although Tom would never be grateful to his dead parents for bringing him into the world and leaving him with nothing, he was at least thankful he’d had the fortune to inherit their genes and win the lottery pool in terms of looks.

All it took was a little eye contact, a touch of hand, a flash of a smile and the boy had them all wrapped around his finger. People always were gullible for a pretty face and Tom made sure he used it to his full advantage.

Though the two are encased in their own little bubble, they still have a shadow following them, Tom's warning still fresh in his mind. He’d already disappointed his leader once before and he planned not to do it again. Given that the older boy had Amy preoccupied, Barty would have to act fast.

“If I may, where’s the bathroom,” he asks, interrupting Amy mid sentence.

The girl fiercely glares at him for making his presence known and Barty withers like a crumpled leaf under her scorn. However her annoyance is quickly forgotten as the opportunity for her and Tom to be alone presented itself. “It's the closest door down the hall to your left.”

Barty merely nods and slinks away, the other two watching him go as he does.

“You’ll have to excuse him, he tends to miss a few social cues here and there,” Tom drawled.

Amy giggles and the sound grates like nails clawing at his back.

Continuing their tour of the house, Tom notes that it is nicely decorated, a far cry from the community home he lived in. Although District 2 was one of the wealthier ones out of all the districts, they still had their touches of poverty.

The two teen’s conversations soon turns to talk of Amy’s mother, the Mayor of District 2, and Tom compliments her skills for though he did not like Amy in the slightest, her mother was a woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t let anything stop her from getting it. Tom could respect that.

For some reason, the girl steers the talk away from her family and to that of their schoolmates. Tom never quite cared for them either but it had been at the District 2 school he attended where he’d gained a large portion of his little following from.

“I’m not sure the others would believe me if I told them you came here,” Amy whispers conciliatory, as if sharing a secret to Tom.

“And why is that?”

She blushes and fidgets and Tom is wondering what she’ll get out of this meeting that she had requested if nothing more than some idle gossip.

“W-W-Well you’re quite handsome and-and the others all like you a lot don’t you know,” she stammers before going on to confess,“But I’m the one who you choose so I’m sure they’ll be quite jealous.”

The girl takes the boy's silence for acceptance and as she leans up on her tiptoes, fluttering her eyelashes, Tom realizes what she’s about to do before she does it. He’d rather not kiss Amy Bishop but if he’d had to do it, so be it, there were far worse things he’d done for the sake of getting his way.

“I’m back! I Got a little lost though sorry,” the voice of Barty once again interrupts the two but this time Tom is grateful for the boy as the girl underneath him whips away.

Although Amy wasn’t ugly by any means, Tom didn’t give away his services freely and kissing was a leverage he’d gotten quite good at using when getting what he wanted.

Though the girl still clings onto his arm, the mood is now clearly ruined. Tom would have to reward Barty later for despite his bumbling attempts to please him, the other boy’s timing at times was impeccable.

Their tour ends quite abruptly after that as the trio arrived now back in the foyer only this time they’re at the top of the grand staircase that takes them to the second floor.

“Before I go, I wanted to say that I came to wish you luck,'' Tom tells the girl who is clutching his arm as though she might drown if she let go.

“Whatever for,” Amy questions, as if Tom were daft

“For today’s Reaping of course.”

At his answer the girl only rolls her eyes. “I’m only entered five times.” She gave a delicate shrug as if the issue was of no concern to her. “Besides, there’s plenty more girls who have their names placed.” Her face morphed into a look of spite as someone came to mind though she was careful to hide the look by burrowing her face into the crook of Tom's shoulder. “Like that horrible Black girl, Bellatrix, who follows you around. If anyone deserves to be a tribute it’s her,” she sniffed out, the distaste evident in her voice.

Tom imagined pushing Amy down the gilded stairs the two were currently walking down. It would be almost too easy.

He watches the scene play out in his head in slow motion. All it would take would be a rough shove and down she would tumble. She’d land headfirst and the girl's skull would crack open as it struck the hard marble floor but nothing would come out because her head was surely as empty as her heart. Tom himself would walk the rest of the way down and then he would squat next to her and simply watch, savoring as the girl was finally leaving his life. No one would be there to give her aid, not even the boy she lusted after would lift a finger to help her, and Amy would realize it even as the light left her eyes.

With no witnesses besides Barty, and the boy certainly wouldn’t run his mouth, it’d be easy to spell it away as an accident, how Amy had been so overcome with nerves for the reaping she’d lost her footing. Tom had done all he could but even his efforts couldn’t save the girl. It would be as easy as that.

But he doesn’t, even as much as he wanted to. He couldn’t draw suspicions no matter how little they might be and so he decides to spare Amy just this once.

“Still though, I wish you good luck.” The trio have now made it to the bottom, accident avoided, and Tom is eager that their meeting is drawing to a close. “One never knows after all.”

“You’ll certainly won’t need it,'' the girl flirted back, her fingers gripping harder into his arm as if she were trying to leave fingerprint impressions on his skin.

Tom lets out a genuine laugh at that. If only the girl knew.

“It’s been a pleasure Amy but we must be going unfortunately.” Tom brought the hand on his arm to his lips and pressed a kiss to it.

Speechless, the girl practically melts underneath his palm at the gesture.

One would be surprised if they knew what honeyed words and a skilled tongue, in more ways than one, could get you and Amy Bishop was a perfect example of it.

With a quick nod to Barty the two boys leave the Justice Building for Reaping time was approaching quickly and they still needed to get ready.

Tom lets the mask he’d donned earlier slip a little, rolling his eyes as Amy watches him leave from the door, like a princess awaiting the return of her beloved knight.

The handsome youth had no real feelings for the girl no matter what daydreams she had deluded herself with. In the grand scheme of things she was just a stepping stone.

“I’m assuming you were successful Barty,” Tom inquires once they’ve gotten a distance away from the building although the question comes out more like a demand.

“Yes sir.”

“Good. You’ve redeemed yourself” - the boy blushes at Tom's words - “for now at least.”

Nothing more is exchanged for Tom knew that such things were best kept private and under lock and key. Secrecy was hard to maintain when there were cameras everywhere after all.

A fork appears in the road but before Tom leaves his follower to his own activities for the rest of the day, he leans down to give him a warm pat of the shoulder as a reward for a job well done. “May the odds be ever in your favor as well” Tom purrs into his ear.

Barty pales then flushes as he’s caught in the intensity that is Tom Riddle's presence before scurrying away.

Watching his retreating figure, now all that was left for Tom to do was to watch and wait. It wouldn’t be too hard given he’d been doing it for the past eighteen years after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

Stepping into the foyer of the community home, the boy is pleased to note that there is no one there to greet him. The rest of the house must be in their rooms, preparing for the fast approaching Reaping.

But the walls of the home are thin and Tom hears them all talking, voices slightly muffled. No doubt they were steeling their nerves against the anxiety Reaping Day induced.

Unlocking the door to his room, Tom enters it to find it bare as it always was, devoid of personality and stripped of everything besides a few furniture pieces. He had never needed anything but the basics to suite his needs except for one thing.

Carefully, the boy tugs at a crumbling brick from above his bed until it came loose from the wall only to reveal a journal hidden in the gap it creates. The diary had been a gift from Nagini on his thirteenth birthday and the boy had treasured it like nothing else. Idly flipping through the pages Tom looks over the scribbles and countless entries.

They were not simple written dreams of a wistful child though. Instead the ramblings and outlines detailed plans he’d had in mind for years now.

Tom was not stupid. He knew what would happen were the book to be found. With the contents of the first page alone he'd certainly be branded a rebel and paraded in front of all District 2 before being hung in the town square, a reminder for all those who dared to even entertain even the mere thought of a life different than what the Capitol enforced.

And so he had had to be careful, keeping the existence of his diary a secret that no one knew about besides Nagini and a few of the garden snakes.

Placing the diary on his dresser, the boy changed out of his shirt into one of the few nice ones he owned. He did have to maintain an image after all. He also slips out of his weathered old shoes, worn to the heel and slips on a pair of leather soft boots, bending over to lace the strings tight as he does so. The pair of shoes had been a gift from an acquaintance who lived in the Capitol.

Speaking of which, Tom would have to find a way to contact the man once he’d arrive there. Lucius Malfoy, who although may have been a Capitol Citizen that flaunted his lifestyle, was someone who knew power when they saw it.

Tom had met the man years ago when the boy had first started expanding his circle, trying to form connections. Lucius at the time and still was, the overseer for the recruitment and training of peacekeepers in District 2. Unbeknownst to most other distracts, District 2 while in charge of masonry, was also the main center of defense who was in charge of churning out peacekeepers who were used by the Capitol to keep the other districts in check.

Being the center of defense had allowed District 2 to have a favored relationship with the Capitol, being both a lap and watchdog. They were given better food, better amenities, better everything all in return for their unguarded loyalty.

Tom had been recruited by Lucius to join the ranks after he became ineligible for the games but he’d respectfully declined, stating his Head Boy duties were his priority but in all actuality the boy had bigger plans in mind.

Malfoy also had a son, Draco, who was similar in age but Tom was nothing like the pampered Capitol boy who’d grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth. If anything, he should have been the one to live the life of luxury so many Capitol citizens lead that was built off the back of their districts servitude. Perhaps maybe then he would have grown up among the elite and rubbed hands with the crème de la crème but Tom had long ago accepted he would have to work his way up from the bottom.

Today, all of his efforts would finally be realized and he could not help but feel a thrum of excitement as his plans were slowly coming into place.

Final touches finished, Tom took the journal in hand and crossed the small expanse of his room to stand in front of the small fireplace, briefly glancing at the fractured mirror which hung on the wall above it as he does so.

The incident leading to its untimely demise had happened when he was younger and unable to control the swell of unpleasant emotions that came as a result of having to live with the horde of other community home children. At that point in his life, Tom had perfected the image of a good obedient boy down to every sweet smile and soft spoken word.

Despite this portrayal of good nature that had every adult falling to his whim, the other children were not as easily fooled though. And so the children did as children do best, especially those of District 2, which is to say they singled out the weakest of the pack.

He’d long stopped questioning why they specifically chose him as their victim and more so focused on avoiding them at all times throughout the day in order to not be subjected to their rather useless and annoying attempts of intimidation.

That did not mean they still didn’t use every opportunity they could find to make his life hell and one day as Tom had been climbing the stairs to return to their shared room after a tiring day of chores, a group of them with billy Stubbs the resident community home bully, had passed him, all giggling. The act alone should have clued the boy in but he’d been too wrapped up in his own head to notice.

He did not fail to notice however the snake nailed to the children’s quarters door, it’s head crushed and belly split so that it’s entrails trailed out and brushed against the ground. Tom had recognized it as soon as he saw it, its unique green and yellow pattern flecked with blood.

The snake had been a companion of sorts the boy had found in the garden earlier that month. He’d kept it close and at night he would whisper to it his thoughts as the snake soaked up his body warmth. As he had revealed his lonely little secrets no other being, not even Nagini knew, he had liked to imagine that the animal could understand him and would listen as he poured his heart out.

He’d taken the snake down and buried it in the garden where he had discovered him in the first place. He had not cried for Tom Riddle never cried, not even as young as he was, but as he had looked at the little broken body of what he’d considered his only friend besides Nagini, there had been a feeling in his stomach that lay heavy like the stones the quarry workers mined day in and day out.

The experience had only cemented in his mind what Tom had already known; that he would show them all. Though he had conformed all those years, surrender had never been an option, not when he would rise above them all.

It was not hard to sneak into their rooms given none of the children’s dorms had locks on them in order so that their caretakers could check on them intermittently throughout the day.

He’d done it at a time when they were in the middle of daily chores, leaving their room entirely unguarded.

The object of his desire was not hard to find given the soft white fur of the rabbit stood out against the harsh grays and blues of the room. Billy Stubbs was known among the children for having caught the wild rabbit and proudly kept it displayed in a little cage he’d fashioned from scrap metal.

As Tom had carefully approached it, the little rabbit had shook in its cage, vivid red eyes wide as if sensing the intentions of the boy who had come to collect it. It’d taken a few minutes of precious time wasted but he’d eventually been able to calm it with the offerings of a carrot he’d swiped from the kitchen.

Quietly, he had unlatched the door and after a few soothing and gentle pets the rabbit ceased its trembling as the boy held it against his chest. He could have just taken the rabbit and gone and repeated the same things that Billy had performed to his snake but Tom Riddle did not fancy himself cruel after all. Cold hearted, maybe, but Billy Stubs had brought it on himself and besides it was only fair after all.

A life for a life. Such was the order of things and not even man could disobey the laws of nature.

Tom would have enjoyed it more had the rabbit fought back, if it had tried to put up a struggle, biting and scratching as he’d slowly tightened his grip around its neck. The animal shouldn’t have been so trusting but in the end it had worked in his favor.

Clean up was minimal and all that was needed afterwards was the assistance of a chair and a length of rope he’d also stolen but this time from the toolshed.

It did not take long for the others to find his masterpiece and frightened screams had filled the community home as the children found the rabbit’s dead body hanging from a homemade noose of rope from the ceiling rafters, it’s eyes bulging and bloodshot even with death clouding over them.

The adults had all been horrified at the act even though the Hunger Games took place which were certainly much worse in Tom’s opinion. Naturally, the other children had all turned on him and accused him of the deed but how could sweet little Tom Riddle have done such a thing? The boy wouldn’t harm a fly and besides Nagini could vouch that the boy had been with her reading like he always did during that time.

Billy though had had an inkling it was him for no one but Tom would even dare to go against the bully. Or maybe he had just wanted to torment the boy some more but either way in retaliation he somehow managed to steal his journal Tom kept sequestered away in his dresser.

He’d never got a chance to read it though given Tom had in turn broken the boy’s arm for it.

Once again the adults had had to intervene but like always Tom had portrayed the face of a saint, teary eyed and crying that he hadn’t meant to hurt Billy. The two had been roughhousing as all boys their age did and it had simply gotten out of hand.

Head mother Cole, who in her eyes Tom could do no wrong, could not prove an angelic cherub like him would ever do something as deliberate as what the children were accusing him of. She’d simply dismissed Tom to his room as a temporary punishment to satisfy Billy whose arm till that day still hung at an odd angle, never quite fixed even with the aid of the district apothecary.

 _No_ , Tom Riddle was not cruel but he did believe in justice.

As he had laid on his bed in his room, the boy had seethed for though he may have delivered his punishment, Billy still had been able to find and steal his carefully guarded journal. That only proved how much Tom had to learn and he hated when others proved him wrong. As the anger had dripped like poison in his veins, he’d gotten up to pace the room when he had caught sight of himself in the mirror. The boy in it was young and juvenile and everything that he had tried so hard to bury into the ground until it decayed and died.

The mirror's image only mocked him and at that moment Tom despised how weak he was.

He remembered vividly how the broken glass had pierced his skin and shattered as he’d hit the object's surface until both the glass and his fists were stained bloody and the liquid dripped down his hands and onto the floor.

But Tom had grown from those days of immaturity and recklessness. He’d shed those insecurities and weaknesses like a second skin until there was nothing left but jagged perfection that was sharp enough to cut.

The mirror before him still hung broken, the boy had never bothered to fix it given he wasn’t vain enough to have any use of it, but he still kept it in his possession as a reminder.

Peering at his reflection, the splintered shards cracked and distorted his handsome features. A boy on the verge of becoming a man looked into the glass but the mirror reflected a monster back, it's dark eyes glittering as it’s prize was dangled just out of reach.

 _Yes_ , he would prove to them all what Tom Riddle of District 2 could achieve.

Fear had never stopped the boy before and it certainly wouldn’t know, not when the crown and title that were so rightfully his was almost in Tom's grasp, not when he could almost taste the sweetness of triumph on his tongue, could feel the promise of victory flowing through his veins.

It was his last year and he would make it count.

Turning away from the broken decoration, the boy pulled out a box of matches he kept stored atop the fireplace mantle for cold nights and destruction of evidence. With a swift flick he struck a match and threw it into the fireplace, the flames immediately licking at the old wood, waiting to be fed. Tom had always liked fire with it’s desire to consume everything in its path. In a way he was a lot like the element itself, uncontrollable.

Without sparing a second thought or glance the boy throws the journal held in his hand into the flames, watching as the pages of the diary curled and burned due to the heat, the black leather bubbling and melting as the fire ate away.

He supposed he ought to feel more sad given all his years of writings and thoughts were collected in there but in the end it didn’t matter too much. Tom wouldn't be needing it any more after the day was over.

~~~~~~~~~~

Like most districts, the annual Reaping takes place in the main square. After the boy gives his name to the peacekeeper, he observes the mobs of people swarming and gathering around. Those ineligible hang off on the sidelines, all eyeing the groups of eligible children, aged twelve to eighteen, who crowd together.

Tom briefly spots Barty who had already found a spot among the groups of gathered seventeen year olds. As if feeling someone watching him, the boy raises his head and catches his leader’s eye before quickly lowering his head in submission.

Although Barty had forced Tom’s hand and made him have to spend time in the presence of Amy Bishop, he was one of Tom's most loyal followers and he had gotten the job done so he supposed he would forgive Barty for now. He did have a need for the scruffy boy in the future after all.

The next person his eyes catch next is a wild haired girl who is rocking back and forth where she stands, the other children around her giving a wide berth. Even by District 2 standards, Bellatrix Black was considered particularly violent. The other children called her mad dog but the girl bore the name with pride as if pleased by the fact she was likened to a crazy bitch.

He had no doubt the girl would follow him. She’d done so from the very first day the two had met all those years ago. While Bellatrix certainly wasn’t in love with him, Tom had found the emotion always distasteful, the girl always had a soft spot for him for reasons still unknown even to the boy himself. In her eyes, no one else could ever manage to measure up to Tom Riddle.

Although the boy could not find the rest of his little group, he was certain they were spread out, all watching and waiting for the moment when the snake that was Tom Riddle finally struck. He wasn't about to be trampled underneath the feet like that of the little garden snake from his past, instead the boy had cultivated the poison which thrummed in his blood until it was potent enough to kill.

At that moment the squabbling and boisterousness of the square becomes still, like the calm before a storm, as a man steps up to the podium.

Horace Slughorn was District 2’s Capitol escort and he was a man who indulged in the luxury of the Capitol and all they had to offer. Tom had never quite liked him given his propensity for dramatics but he would admit that the man knew how to form connections with the right sort. Slughorn was the type of person who did not let his position in life go unused and he collected talented people like tokens.

Though Tom had never been properly introduced to the escort, he had attempted to contact the man over the past year by sending him a few presents of sugared pineapple and sugar coated letters. As expected, his efforts had met with success and Tom had immediately fallen into the man's good graces. The boy had even gained a good deal of information from him during their correspondence even if it to anyone else their conversations about Capitol Parties would have seemed laughable.

“Ladies and Gentlemen I must say, it’s a pleasure to see you all once again,” the escort exclaims.

 _Well, most of us, at least_ , Tom thinks, save for the two tributes who’d both died in the previous years Hunger Games. Although District 2 had the most victors out of all the districts in Hogwarts and their success rate was certainly higher, that didn’t mean they always won.

The two tributes from last year had both been overconfident and cocky which had proved to be fatal as the boy got a hatchet buried in his skull and the girl was finished off by being impaled with an arrow through the eye.

Tom remembers their faces like he remembered most things in his life but he didn’t concern himself with trivial things like losers' names. All that mattered was who had survived and how the others had fallen.

Day after day, the youth had obsessed over past tapes of previous games he’d borrowed from the District 2 archives and watched on the small dingy screen of the t.v in the community home.

Day after day he had recorded every choice taken, every strategy employed, every consequence to each decision made by them all. He’d done all that he could and then some, analyzed and dissected every little detail until he’d memorized how each victor had won and each tribute had lost. Tom didn’t want to make the same mistakes as the dead nor did he want to follow in the same footsteps of those who had been victorious. He had decided he would forge his own path no matter what it took.

By now, Slughorn's presence at the podium has been replaced with Mayor Bishop who reads the History of Hogwarts to the crowds. It was boring and repetitive and tedious given Tom had memorized it word for word by the second year he was eligible.

As the woman drones on, Tom contemplates the line of District 2’s previous victors who all sit atop the stage. They were somewhat considered celebrities within the district and a few of them often got to take trips to the Capitol for some “extracurricular” activities.

The person who he pays most attention to though is a scowling man with greasy black hair and hooked nose who looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else but there. Severus Snape his mind quickly supplied. He was renowned for using poison darts during his year and most notable was the fact the victor had even managed to somehow contaminate the drinking supply with a concoction of poisonous berries and other deadly plants. His presence of sitting nearest to the podium indicated he would be this year's District 2 mentor apparently. They all operated on a rotation given they had so many past victors it was hard to keep track of at times.

Tom would have preferred someone else but even for him there were some decisions he could not influence.

The people around him shift as Slughorn once again takes his place at the podium. “What a wonderful speech from Mrs. Bishop, let us give the lady some applause,” the escort gushes out.

A wave of rather pitiful clapping rings out across the square because like the lap dogs that they were, the people did as they were told.

“Now lets get to the real excitement shall we! Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor,” the man wishes them before walking over to the big glass bowl designated for the girls and reaches in.

Instead of watching him, Tom leans his head back to gaze at the sky. Dark clouds have drawn together and the smell of oncoming rain hangs in the air, earthy and tangy. District 2 was known for the often occurrence of floods and thunderstorms with the occasional crack of lightning.

As a child Tom had never been afraid of the dark and rumbling storms which howled and hailed. Instead of cowering underneath his blankets like the other community children did, he would stay awake at the window, waiting for the next flash of light against the night sky.

He’d been so fascinated with the lightening he’d even wondered if there was any way to harness it like the electricity a girl from District 3 had done in a previous year of the games. She had used loose wiring found in the crumbling city remains of the arena to shock and electrocute the other tributes till their hearts stopped. An impressive feat no doubt but Tom would certainly outshine it. He would make sure of it.

“And out lovely lady for district 2 is,” Slughorn pauses as he smooths the folded paper open. “Bellatrix Black.”

Said girl in question let’s out a squeal and skips her way to the stage, bouncing on her heels as she takes her designated place on the platform. Tom doesn’t miss the way Slughorn takes a slight step away from the overeager girl.

He’d wished she’d be less obvious about her excitement but Bellatrix had never been one for subtlety.

With the female tribute chosen, the air begins to thrum with a charged energy and whether it is because of the weather or the people around him Tom can’t tell but all he hears is white noise, static buzzing in his blood.

The prestige and power of winning the Hunger Games, as small as it was, would be the final step needed to pull his years of planning together. Year after year, the boy had watched and waited as the Capitol pulled on the strings of the Distrcts, so tight they became razor sharp. But Tom had never once let them bend them to their will.

The time was now or never.

“And our male tribute for District 2 is…”

This time the boy watches as Slughorn's hand dips into the ball and fishes among the folded papers. The crowd holds their breath, for though District 2 may have been the Capitol’s lapdog, even they weren't safe from the dreaded fear of the Hunger Games.

But for the first time in all forty-nine years of Reaping Days, the citizens in District 2 would need not to worry for the chances had already been decided long before they'd even known.

As the boy with sharp eyes and a blank face stands still among the masses of people who wait restlessly, he prepares for the inevitable moment the camera will turn its eyes on him for there was only but one name on each and every one of those little slips of paper.

Tom had never thought such things like luck and chance existed, they were simply childish fantasies he’d long left buried in the graveyard of childhood. Instead he had grasped whatever destiny lay for him in the palm of his hands and shaped it into one that was of greatness for not even fate was out of Tom Riddle’s control. The boy had been playing a game from the moment he had realized all those years ago what exactly he would need to do to ascend above them all.

It was a gamble he was willing to take and with a reveal of the dice he remembers the stark white of snake eyes boring into him. Maybe it had been a sign from above of what was to come but Tom was a boy who did not believe in prophecy.

Though snake eyes was the worst possible result one could get, it did not matter because he had come to learn that success could be obtained in many ways. One just simply needed to know how to play their cards.

Slughorn finally quits the theatrics of shuffling around in the bowl and picking a scrap of paper, draws it out to read.

"Tom Riddle”

The boy takes a moment to bask in the admiration as all of District 2 turns their attention to where he stood as if their eyes were pulled to him by an unknown force. He was well known throughout both for his good natured charm and good looks. It had taken blood sweat and venom to make a name for himself, to gain the influence and position he’d worked endlessly to obtain. No longer was he the little orphaned community home boy who had had snakes for friends. No, the mirror had been broken and reflected in it was Tom Riddle, a monster among men, District 2’s champion. They would all see him for who he really was now. 

The boy puts on an air of surprise that is then quickly replaced by one of acceptance, as he gracefully walks the distance from his spot he'd chosen from the back and, just as they should, the crowd parts for him as he goes to take his place next to Bellatrix.

Slughorn must have recognized his name because he claps Tom on the back as the handsome teens stands next to him. “Ladies and Gentlemen I present to you your tributes from Distrct 2, Miss Bellatrix Black and Mr. Tom Riddle.”

As he gazed at the optimistic faces of the army of citizens who stared up two tributes before them, a mad girl and a boy with an unquenchable thirst, Tom could not help but let out a smile as the rumble of thunder filled the sky and he felt the first spatter of rain on his cheek. 

The Capitol and their rule had been a part of his past and present but it would not be his future. 

In the end, Tom would rule the world one way or another. He’d been assured of this even from the moment he’d been brought into the cruel and unforgiving world. The youth had known greatness was destined for him because Hogwarts had no room for prey, only hunters.

Now, it was all a matter of not if, but when he would become victor of the games because after all, Tom Riddle was a boy who had always been good at winning no matter the odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun!! There we have it folks, my first time writing Tom Riddle POV lmao. While I tried to make him as close to canon as possible, there are definitely a few added traits both because I think it'll fit him well but also because both Harry and Tom are slightly different from their original selves as they're apart of a whole different universe with different experiences but I would love to hear your thoughts on my interpretation for him.  
> P.S I loved reading your guesses for the other tributes and you were all right on the dot for everyone but I will say that while Collin Creevery is in the games, he isn't the boy from district 8 ;) they will soon be all revealed though so hang tight! Next chapter will have some Harry and Lavender interaction


	5. Chapter 5 - Friend or Foe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of suicide as well as an attempt at it since Harry is really going through it but he’ll be okay I promise.

It is the shrill ringing of a bell which pulls Harry from the dredges of a dream that hold him hostage.

The boy groans at the noise and pulls the covers over him to muffle the disturbance. One more minute he wants to tell his Aunt who is no doubt coming to yell and pull him out of bed. Just one more minute and he would get up even if he really didn’t want to.

The screech never comes though and distantly Harry feels confused for his Aunt Petunia always made him cook breakfast in the mornings and she was never one to wait for her orders to be followed. The only person the woman ever allowed to slack off under her watchful eye was her precious little Dudley. 

Dudley.

DUDLEY!

The last remnants of sleep fall away as Harry shoots up from bed, the memories of the previous day flooding in.

 _That’s right_ the voice in his head whispers to him. His cousin, Dudley Dursley, had been Reaped and he, Harry Potter, had chosen, rather stupidly, to volunteer for him. And here he was now, not tucked away in the safety of his cot but instead laying on a stupidly expensive bed on a stupidly expensive train that was bringing him straight to the Capitol.

Falling back onto the bed, the boy lets out another groan even as the morning light seeps its way in through the gauzy curtains of the train window and bathes the room in a warm light. The warmth however does not reach him as instead his head begins to fill with cold thoughts.

He'd always known that he wasn’t one to think things through. Harry had been told before, in more so unkind terms by others, that he thought with his heart and not his head. As he’d matured over the years, it had been a distinct part of him the boy had tried to suppress but in perhaps what could be considered the worst moment it had resurrected itself.

The thought of it all makes Harry grab the pillow from underneath his head and slam his face into it. 

Maybe if he tried hard enough he could end it all right there right now by suffocating himself with the admittedly soft cushion. It couldn’t be too hard as all he’d have to do was hold his breath and let nature take its course. Or maybe he could run himself a hot bath instead and drown himself among the bubbles.

As he is running through the numerous options in his head, ranging from hanging himself using the window curtains to bashing his head in with the desk lamp light, a second ring from the same bell from earlier interrupts his planning.

Breakfast it was then. Apparently his plans of imminent demise would have to wait till later. His stomach growls in agreement and it occurs to the youth that he hadn’t actually eaten anything the last day or so given the previous night’s unfortunate toilet fiasco.

Harry hauls himself out from the prison of warm bed sheets and pillows even as his muscles protest at the action, still not used to the bed’s plush luxury. Ignoring their soreness the tired tribute opts to head for the bathroom and although he doesn’t not want to hold up breakfast longer than he already has, there is an immediate need of a teeth brushing because his mouth tastes as though something had gone off and died in it.

After cleaning himself up to a respectable degree and finally feeling somewhat human again, Harry makes the bed and picks up the clothes littered on the ground from where he’d shed them rather unceremoniously. In spite of his rather poor upbringing, Harry wasn’t a slob despite what the Capital may have thought and therefore wouldn’t rely on others to pick up after him.

When everything is in order once more, he changes into a different outfit; this time it’s black pants and a long sleeve navy shirt with fine silver embroidery on its sleeves. He'd never been one for fashion, always put off by it because of the Capitol’s own “unique” trends but as the teen observes himself in the mirror, he finds he looks almost acceptable, save for the dark bags underneath his eyes.

The flutter of the curtains catch his attention as he’s looking at his reflection and Harry is suddenly curious to see the progress the train has made in its journey.

Taking a peek through the window, the sight of it makes him stop and stare. Harry had never been outside the confines of District 10, not even to visit the neighboring District 11, but it's like he’s seeing the world anew. Fields of grassy meadows pass by, already green with the oncoming of spring and flowers like that of the ones he’d given to Ginny are spread throughout, already in full bloom.

It takes a moment for Harry to place the geography of the region they’re traveling through given he’d never paid much attention in school to the distinct landscape features of the other districts but even he can recognize the mountain range of District 2 off in the distance.

The memory of the aforementioned district's tributes from yesterday's Reaping rises unbidden from the back of his mind as his eyes track the towering hills and rocky terrain flowing past. Both tributes had made quite the impression and had certainly been at the forefront of his mind, especially the boy.

Although Harry couldn’t quite recall the dream he’d been awoken from, he was almost positive it had involved them. Snatches of a forest floor and laughter were all that he could remember but the thought of it made his hackles rise. Harry still didn’t know what the two tributes names were but he figured he would find out soon enough. Pretty tributes like Lavender and the handsome youth from District 2 always had their names in the mouths of others.

All other thoughts of the mysterious boy are drowned out by the sudden siege of Harry’s stomach; an indicator that breakfast can’t be put off any longer.

Stepping outside of his room, the boy notes that Lavender’s door is closed as well. He hadn’t wished her goodnight last night, had only left her sitting alone with Dumbledore and Lockheart in the viewing room. He feels a little guilty but pushes the feeling down. He wasn’t here to make friends. Harry would just have to put up a cold front and hopefully the girl would get the hint to leave him alone. It would make things easier in the end if there was no one for him to care about when the time came for the Games to start.

By the time Harry finds his way to the dining car of the train the rest of the group has already beat him to it and are sitting in the same spots as last night's diner as they place food onto their plates.

Harry follows suit and looks over the vast array of items on that morning's menu. Omelettes with veggies, ham, and smothered in melted cheese, a pile of buttered toast, pastries with cream and chocolate pieces, and so much more are all spread out across the table. The drink options are just as numerous and he can smell the bitter scent of coffee wafting through the air. There is a pitcher filled with a sparking liquid he doesn’t recognize so he pours himself a glass and takes a sip of it. The crisp taste of apples fills his mouth and the starving boy downs the whole glass before pouring himself another cup.

“Goodmorning Harry,” Gilderoy sings out over his cup of orange juice. “I take it you slept well?” 

Harry grunts out a reply as he digs into his meal though the tribute is careful to not repeat last night's mistake. He couldn’t be overindulging and throwing up at every single meal.

The escort only sighs at the boy’s manners and returns back to his own plate of food.

As Harry is shoveling a spoonful of egg into his mouth, he happens to catch Lavender’s eye who once again sits across from him.

The girl looks well rested, no dark circles to be seen and her skin is glowing no doubt from the use of Capitol moisturizers and skin products their bathrooms are stocked with. The boy wonders if she has dreams too or maybe she's just good at hiding her worries but he shakes his head. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

Gilderoy catches the look the two share and misinterprets it. “If you two are worried about the opening ceremonies, fear not! Once we reach the Capitol your stylist will make the both of you absolutely shine.” The man gets distracted for a second as he stops to take a bite out of a blueberry muffin from a nearby platter. “Not that you don’t already look good at the moment,” he adds as he chews on the pastry.

Harry doesn’t refrain from rolling his eyes at the escort’s antics anymore. Give it to Lockheart to only care about their looks for the opening ceremonies, although, now that he had mentioned it, the tribute finds himself a little worried at the mention of stylists. Harry didn’t like when others, especially strangers, touched him in any way, shape or form. The only time hands had ever bothered to be on his being were if it was a sharp pinch or a slap for punishment. His skin crawls at the thought that a whole group of people would be getting him prepped and prepared like a slab of meat getting seasoned.

Unintentionally, Harry’s focus is drawn to Lavender again as he surveys her reaction to the thought of a stylist. He supposed she would be overjoyed at being able to get dolled up and paraded around but surprisingly the girl is staring hard at her plate of food, a dark look on her face, like she is no happier with the stylist situation than Harry.

His gaze follows to her plate and he notes that it’s quite sparse as well, with only a half eaten piece of fluffy bread covered in syrup on it. Next to her is a bowl of strawberries with crystallized sugar coating them.

The boy eyes the bright red strawberries which glisten in their sugary coating. There was a patch of them which grew on the outskirts of the district pastures near the Dursley’s home but it was always picked clean by the time he would get to them.

For a second, Harry debates if he should ask her for them or just reach across the table but politeness wins out in the end. “Could you pass the strawberries Lavender?” he asks and adds a quick “please” at the end, almost forgetting his manners.

The girl perks up from where she is using her fork to draw circles in the syrup, french toast all but forgotten, and hands the bowl over to him with a bright smile.

The sight of it makes Harry's heart clench and he mutters a thank you. He didn’t want to give her false hopes or mislead her into thinking the two were friends.

Taking one of the pieces of fruit from the bowl, he pops it into the mouth, eyes going wide as the taste spreads across his tongue. _Oh_. It was good. In fact it was very good. Like a child in a sweet shop Harry steals a few more of the sugary delights and after those are finished he takes a few more until the bowl becomes empty.

Seeing that there’s nothing left, he feels a little sheepish at eating the entire thing without saving any for Lavender but he supposed the other girl could always ask for more from one of the many countless Capitol attendees aboard the train who were waiting on the tributes hand and foot. Besides, sugared strawberries were one of the few luxuries the tribute could afford to partake in and it would only be a matter of time before the games started and he wouldn’t have the opportunity to experience such things any more.

Satisfied, Harry settles back in his chair and allows himself to enjoy the content feeling of fullness as he observes his dining companions once more. Dumbledore and Gilderoy are currently engaged in conversation which flies over his head and the boy's attention turns towards his mentor who is sitting at the head of the table, the same book as before next to him and an empty glass of coffee. 

Harry chances a peek at it but is surprised to see that the reading material doesn’t have a title. The book is rather plain in appearance with a simple dark maroon cover and gold stitching in its binding. It appears to be handmade too and is a lot different from the glossy and hard back school books Harry is accustomed to.

Despite being in conversation with Gilderoy, the mentor spots Harry’s interest in his item. “It’s just a little light reading I like to do every once in a while,” he says and Harry nods in understanding even if the feeling was not mutual.

Harry had never been one for books, or school in general, given the courses had never been much help for him. What need did he have to learn of arithmetics and spelling when they would serve no purpose for a life in a slaughterhouse where all one needed to know was how to severe arteries and butcher meat.

He guessed that the only valuable thing he’d ever learned from the District 10 school, besides the vicious lies force fed to him during their history lessons, was the study of Anatomy, both animal and human, as a way to help the children learn how to operate in the different roles they could choose to partake in as they became older. 

While Harry had chosen the more messier option of killing, there were other routes he could have chosen besides a life of blood. For one, there were those responsible for taking care of and feeding the animals out in the Pastures or there were also the duties of milking the cattle in order so that their milk could be made into dairy products for the Capitol. Collecting countless eggs from chickens was another task one could take up as well or even cleaning the pens but in the end it had been the path where the animals met their untimely ends that the boy had taken.

As Harry finds himself busy contemplating how his life might have turned out differently had he chosen a different job than that of the slaughterhouse, the group's plates are picked up and the table is cleared until eventually only the inhabitants of the room remain.

Dumbledore takes this time to clear his throat and Harry is pulled back into the present. “We’re almost to the Capitol so I would like to take this time to discuss a few things with the two of you.”

Both teens stiffen in their seats simultaneously. Conversations with mentors were never fun but Dumbledore was their only feasible chance of getting an edge in the games so both Harry and Lavender made sure to be attentive to whatever the man had to say.

A tribute's mentor was mainly responsible for getting them sponsors, most often rich people from the Capitol who had the means and the funds to send gifts to their selected tribute of choice. More sponsors often meant more gifts and each gift, whether it be food, weapon, or medicine could mean the difference between life or death.

Harry thought the whole system was rather unfair but then again, everything concerning the Hunger Games was disagreeable. All those Capitol people who bet on tributes like they were nothing more than race horses. The thought of being someone’s trophy horse infuriated Harry but he knew better than to voice such opinions. Even if he didn’t want to, he would have to force himself to smile for the camera and hope the audience liked what they saw.

Now that there were bigger risks at hand, namely a certain redhead, Harry would need to survive a little longer than just dying outright like he had originally planned and getting a sponsor would certainly help with that.

Besides being the ones to settle outside sponsorships though, their mentor also had the duty of advising their district's tributes but given Dumbledore hadn’t been in the games for quite some time, Harry wasn’t feeling too prepared on the man's ability to guide them.

“Tell me, although I know you certainly haven’t received any training prior to the games, I’m sure you both have certain skills we can focus on,” Dumbedore asks them.

Both Harry and Lavender sit in silence as they wait for the other to start first. The question itself by all means wasn’t hard to answer but Harry is disappointed to find that he doesn’t have anything to come up with.

“I don’t have any experience,” he begins, because honestly there wasn’t much else to say. It’s not like he was one of the tributes from the wealthier districts like one, two, and four who had the ability to train their children beforehand in preparation even if they weren’t supposed to.

“He’s quite skilled with a knife,” Lavender quips up from her side of the table. 

Harry startles at the girl's comment. When he turns his head to look at her there is an evaluating light to her eyes.

“Well you have to be, since you work at the slaughterhouse,” she explains.

The boy is slightly dumbfounded. Why would Lavender Brown of all people know he worked there? While it wasn’t like his job was a commonly kept secret, the two had never even really met before today so he wasn’t sure where the girl had gotten the information.

“That doesn’t mean anything when most of the other tributes are bigger and stronger than me so what am I going to do if I find myself without a weapon?”

The girl doesn’t back down at his argument as she is apparently determined to put in a good word for the boy across from her. “Even without a knife, you’re physically capable of fighting since it takes a lot of strength to subdue a scared animal.”

“Not enough to take down another person though,” Harry challenges back.

At this Lavender only gives him a long hard stare, as if questioning why her fellow tribute is undervaluing himself. Harry doesn't even know why they're arguing over something as trivial as this.

“I’m glad to see you’re looking out for Harry, Lavender,” Dumbledore interrupts from where he sits in the background, watching the two go back and forth. “But it seems as though you two are not on the same page here.”

The tribute only crosses her arms and slumps back into her chair at the mentor’s words. Harry finds his actions mirror her and instinctively does the same until they both look like petulant children being scolded by their grandfather for fighting. 

Sensing that the two have reached a stalemate their mentor can’t help but breathe a sigh. He had hoped the two would become allies even if they were tributes for the Hunger Games but it seemed that would be harder than originally thought. “Since it appears there might be a little trouble in the future, how about I make a suggestion.”

The two teens break their staring contest to look at the man, argument laid aside for now. “Would you like to receive your mentor training separately or together from now on?” He questions. Whatever choice they made would dictate how he would approach the situation.

“Alone,” Harry answers just as Lavenders says, “Together please.”

Good mood now from breakfast now gone and instead Harry finds it replaced with irritation at the girl's stubbornness. What was with her? Did she really want to be on good terms with him or maybe it was all an act and she was looking to exploit any and all weakness of his that she could find.

Suddenly Harry stands from his seat so fast the motion causes his chair to tip back and fall to the ground. “I’m not going to work with someone who might stick a knife in me the second I turn my back,” he spits out. 

Lavender’s mouth falls open in shock at the insult. _Good_ Harry thinks. The more she hated him the less she would care about him when he died and vice versa.

Turning to Dumbledore Harry notes that a disappointed look has appeared on the man's face but he doesn’t care. “Either we do our trainings separate or I don’t go to them at all,” is all the tribute says to him before storming off from the dining car even if he feels childish as he does so.

Harry didn’t know why they had such expectations for him. He’d rather they didn’t bother at all and just left him to take his defeat quickly and quietly.

 _Is that what you really want though_ , a voice in his head, sounding much like the one from last night who had called him a liar, asks him. 

_Shut up_ he snarls and stomps it underneath his metaphorical foot. Feeling sick once more, Harry heads to the bathroom for a much needed attempt to cool the heat he felt licking its jaws inside of him.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

The bath water is cool and refreshing and the scent of jasmine fills the air as the boy leans back in order to rest his head against the rim of the tub.

For once his mind is silent as he floats in the admittedly stupidly large tub. It was so big it could probably fit two people...not that he had anyone to share it with nor that he would.

The feeling from earlier, of feeling too tight in his skin, like he will explode any moment is no longer buzzing and instead has returned to quiet thrum it normally was.

Taking a deep breath, Harry sinks under the water until not even the outside sounds of the train can reach him. Underwater he feels weightless, feels as though there is nothing that can penetrate the stillness. Letting out all the breath in his lungs in a stream of bubbles the boy doesn’t resurface.

Harry considers what would happen should he choose to stay under and never come up. The thought of dying ought to scare him more but he had been surrounded by death, both animal and human, his whole life and the concept does little to stir any feelings of horror. He’d come to accept the idea of death and its conclusion to all things long ago given that that was the sad reality of his life whether it be by his hands or the Capitol.

Speaking of said regime, if he were to die now then that would be a big slap in the Capitol’s face, to have them lose one of their tributes before the Games even started. They wouldn’t be able to do anything to him if he was dead. Harry’s life was in his hands and if he really wanted to he could end it all right then and there and nobody would be able to stop him. 

The rational part of his mind argues vehemently though that while no, the Capitol could not hurt him were he to die, that did not mean they wouldn’t find other ways to punish those close to him for his actions. The Captiol didn’t like to be outsmarted and they made sure to make examples of those who did.

In the end self preservation wins and the boy breaks the surface of water with a gasp, his lungs burning. He sucks in a few greedy gulps of air until his racing heartbeat evens out and he no longer feels like he might pass out. If he did collapse then he might actually drown and Harry wasn’t too keen on someone finding his dead naked body.

He stays in the bath until his fingers wrinkle and the water becomes cold.

Grabbing one of the many fluffy towels stacked in neat little piles, he watches dispassionately as the water swirls down the drain but unfortunately it does not take his worries with it. After toweling and dying his hair, Harry puts back on his outfit from earlier since it’s not even dirty and goes to lay down on his bed. 

While staring at the ceiling he reflects on his actions. Did the others, even Gilderoy, deserve to be subjected to his ire? _No_. Harry knows that he has no one to blame but himself and taking his anger out on his unsuspecting companions, be they annoying Capitol escort or not, was not fair.

It was true that Harry did and said things without thinking of the consequences as exemplified with his earlier bathroom actions and even he could acknowledge that his immaturity at times was a quality that brought more harm than good. Although he wouldn’t force himself to play nice with the others he could at least be civil with them.

Resigned, the boy continues to stare at the ceiling and trace the patterns in the wallpaper. He's not sure how much time passes before he hears a knock at his bedroom door.

“Come in,” he calls from his spot, thinking it was probably just one of the many Capitol attendees coming to check on him.

It is not a Capitol employee though and instead Lavender Brown who opens the door.

Surprise washes over Harry given he’d thought his words for earlier would have scared her off. Or maybe the girl had come to chew him out in private and give him a piece of her mind.

She doesn’t appear angry though nor particularly sad. In fact if anything the girl looks determined. “Do you want to talk?”

The invitation goes unanswered as Harry remains silent. Did Lavender think he was pitiful? Was she here to see if she could crack the carefully created exterior he’d forged over the years? Or maybe he was right in his initial assumption and she really did come to continue their argument from earlier.

The girl hesitates from her position at the door but instead of leaving she gathers her courage and enters the room. Despite what others may have said about her, Lavender Brown was someone who wasn’t afraid to be kind.

Sitting up from where he is laying on his back, while Harry doesn’t push his fellow tribute away given he wasn’t as rude as to do that, he does give her a guarded look as she sinks down next to him.

For a while the two sit in silence neither quite sure what to do next. While it wasn’t like the awkward silence Harry had experienced with Dudley during their goodbye it certainly wasn’t enjoyable. Since it was Lavender who wanted to talk, Harry waits for her to start first because he’s not quite sure what direction this “talk” of theirs is about to take.

Hesitantly, Lavender stirs beside him and brings a hand up to place it lightly on his shoulder.

The foreign action causes Harry to still but he then feels himself leaning into the touch unintentionally, his defenses crumbling ever so slightly at the warmth it exudes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she repeats once more, her imploring eyes searching his.

It dawns on Harry what the girl is offering as the unspoken truce hangs in the air.

If he tells her to go then that will be the end, no more attempts at friendship, it will be as if the two are perfect strangers only stuck together out of convenience until the games begin.

Harry suddenly see his fellow tribute in a new light. In the short time he’s come to know her, he can tell that though she may be stubborn, Lavender Brown is not a girl who will waste her efforts on someone that does not want to be helped.

If if he tells her to go then she’ll spare the both of them and leave him alone.

Loneliness was something that Harry Potter knew well. It had been his only companion the past years of his life and had been one of the reasons why he’d kept his distance from everyone even as it ate away at him. Being alone meant no one could hurt you. Being alone meant that Harry did not have to reveal the ugly parts of himself he kept tightly locked away. With no one there he didn’t have anyone to bare his bleeding and hollow heart too.

For a second though, red hair and a teary face from the day before sneaks it’s way into his head and Harry feels a surge of fondness. But even loneliness hadn’t stopped Ginny Weasley from worming her way into his heart and making a home for herself. As Harry meets the eyes of Lavender who sits in patient silence, her warm hand still resting on his shoulder, he knows it wouldn’t stop her either.

Year after year Harry had watched as tribute after tribute had met their end in the Hunger Games. He had watched as one after another had turned on the other. But after all the years of anger and grief Harry had gone through, he finds that amidst it all, there is a longing for softness, a longing for something to soothe all the bitterness and sadness that had manifested over the years.

As if sensing the inner turmoil going on in his mind, Lavender gently squeezes Harry’s shoulders and that proves to be the final straw for even he can not resist the olive branch extended from her warm hands.

“No,” he softly says to her.

The hand on his shoulder stiffens, the rejection stinging. The girl quickly lets her hand drop from his shoulder and gets up to leave only to be suddenly pulled back back as Harry lunges after her hand.

“No-wait-I didn’t mean like that, I just-”, the boy flounders. The words catch in his throat and he squeezes Lavender hand instead, hoping she gets the message. “Please stay.”

No sooner has the request left his lips then Harry feels himself being enveloped in a hug, Lavender squeezing so hard it feels as though she is trying to crush his ribs.

The girl feels as the boy beneath her sags into her hand, as if he’d never been given a hug before and the thought only causes her to clutch him tighter. He lets out a choked sigh as if he is carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Although Lavender didn’t know Harry that well, had only seen him pass by in the hallways in the District 10 school, that did not mean she couldn’t care for him. Despite the animosity that the Hunger Games festered between its competitors, Lavender knew that though she would have to prepare herself to fight the other districts' tributes, she wouldn’t be able to see them as her foes.

“I don’t want us to be enemies,” she whispers into Harry’s ear. 

The sudden admission causes Harry to realize that no, neither does he.

Pulling back, he takes in the features of the girl before him. While Lavender had always been a pretty girl, up close the boy notices things like a small scar on her chin and a splatter of freckles on her cheeks though nothing like Ginny Weasley’s. “I don’t want us to be enemies either,” he admits.

Falling back into the bed, Harry pats the spot next to him and Lavender gets the message as she follows suit. “Now let's talk.”

~~~~~~~~~~

For the rest of the afternoon the two District 10 tributes talk although it is not the anger driven conversation Harry thought it would be.

Instead, they talk about their lives before the games though Harry is careful to avoid the topic of the Dursley’s. They talk about school and her family and Harry finds himself relaxing bit by bit as the two share pieces of themselves to each other.

He learns that Lavender works in the pastures wrangling up lost, straggling, or runaway sheep and cattle and that they all knew her by the sound of her voice. Interesting enough, Lavender also tells him that though she wasn’t allowed outside after the district curfew, none of them were, she would often sneak out to look at the stars. Though the girl didn’t know all of the constellations, she liked to think that their positions in the sky could predict the future, something Harry found quite humorous though he did not tell her this. He didn’t want to ruin the gleam in her eyes as she talked about her nightly exploits and starry predictions.

Eventually their conversation turns to that of yesterday’s events though Harry doesn't want them to. He had had enough of thinking about the Games already but he is hesitant to stop their talk.

“Did you know the girl,” Lavender asks quite suddenly out of nowhere, Harry stiffens, knowing what girl she is referring too. So the other tribute had noticed his reaction in the viewing room and had even been perceptive enough to see through his lie.

The District 10 boy considers lying to her once more but decides not too. She would probably be dejected if their newfound friendship started off on a foundation of lies. “I-yes-she’s a friend of mine,” he says tongue tied.

When Harry doesn’t try to explain further, the wound still too fresh, Lavender fills in the gaps for herself. “I’m guessing that was her brother?”

Turning away from where he’s propped up on his arm, Harry lays back down and stares at the ceiling though he offers her a nod. He had tried hard not to think about Fred Weasley the last day and how he had looked as he climbed the stage. He’d tried even harder not to imagine what Ginny and the other Weasley siblings and family members must be going through because if Harry even stopped to think about it, he might actually have another breakdown and that certainly wouldn’t do him any good.

Lavender doesn’t say anything more as she watches the boy struggle to contain the emotions inside him and she wonders why Harry volunteered in the first place but even she knows that is a question too personal to ask. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes to him, both for bringing up Ginny and also for how hard it must be for the other tribute.

Her words are heartfelt and strike a chord in his heart. Fortunately, Lavender doesn’t ask any further questions about Ginny as if understanding the topic is touchy and for that he is thankful.

As they lay together on top of his bed side by side, the youth wonders why he’d even been standoffish from the start. _Because you didn’t want to face the fact she would eventually leave you behind_ the voice from earlier hisses. Just like before Harry sweeps it aside. That was the side of him he kept tethered tightly but lately it had appeared to have gotten a little bit braver in it’s comments.

Although he had accepted her offer of friendship or allyship or whatever they were, Harry lets Lavender do most of the talking, still not quite comfortable on the two’s newfound ground. He didn’t have much experience in the relationship department given most people tended to avoid him, either scared off by Dudley or the fact Harry worked at the slaughterhouse, so he had not had that much experience with others his age besides the monthly meetings with Ginny.

“Why did you tell Dumbledore all that stuff about me at breakfast?” the teen asks off topic because the question had been at the back of his mind ever since Lavender had entered his room.

At his confusion the girl lets out a huff of air, the action causing a lock of curly hair to fall in her face. “Because I wanted him to see that you’re not a lost cause,” she says as if Harry were blind to the obviousness of it. She raises herself up on her elbows to poke the boy across from her in the forehead. “Even if you can’t see it yourself.”

Harry take the insult for what it is but can’t help but smirk at the irony of her words.

“I didn’t know you were so…” he trails off unsure how to word it. Lavender was known for her looks but sidelong with it was her propensity to be a little ditzy.

The rest of the sentence is not lost on the girl as she wrinkles her nose at the insinuation. “I may like fancy clothes and flowers but even I’m not that much of an airhead due to contrary belief.”

“I never said you were.”

Smirking at his remark, Lavender tries to flick him again but Harry manages to dodge it this time. She scowls at his ability to evade her attack but shrugs it off. “You didn’t have to say anything.”

Letting out a yawn, she gets up from her position to stretch, her joints popping as she does so. “I may not know much either but even I can learn to put on a smile,” she continues on before grinning down at him and Harry gets the distinct feeling of being a mouse caught in the claws of a cat. “Besides, a pretty girl with a pretty smile can do a lot of harm don’t you know.” Her eyes narrow as said smile turns devious. “Or in your case a pretty boy.”

Harry feels his ears burn but she only laughs further and the sound of it, like the rustle of wind chimes, makes him grin too in spite of the embarrassment.

Holding out a hand towards him, Lavender helps pull Harry up from the bed with surprising strength. Maybe all that time wrestling and wrangling in sheep took more work than he thought.

She pats her clothes and smoothes down the creases that have appeared from where she’d laid and does the same to Harry, like a sister might do to her little brother. “I feel much better now that you’re no longer avoiding me,” she adds as she rearranges his collar so that it’s stiff once more.

The tribute flushes once again and this time his entire face turns red. He lets out a cough to hide the poorly concealed splutter that escapes him.

Lavender says nothing at his reaction but the roll of her eyes is enough to tell him she’d caught on to Harry’s endeavors to distance himself from her.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” he tells her in an effort to change the direction of the conversation and following suit on his promise of earlier to be more civil. Though Harry wasn’t one to apologize, in this case he was in the wrong and it was the right thing to do.

She snorts and the sound is so unlike Lavender the boy is shocked. “Don’t be. I didn’t know you thought of me as a potential threat. That’s almost a compliment in the Hunger Games.”

Flabbergasted, Harry thinks that he was definitely going to have to reconsider his initial impression of Lavender Brown.

“But hey,” she knocks him softly on the shoulder, “if you ever want to talk, you know before everything happens, I’m here if you want.”

For a moment the bravado disappears and in its place is a hesitant young tribute who is being sent to fight to her death. “I have nightmares and so, you know, I guess I know a lot about what it’s like to need someone to talk too,” she admits and Harry watches as the girl before him slips away, her gaze distant as if caught up in the past.

“I’ve had them ever since-,” Lavender stops, shakes herself, and suddenly the girl is back, no longer lost in whatever memory she has been reliving. “Never mind.”

Harry doesn’t pry because in the end they all had secrets they’d take to their grave.

“I do too. Have nightmares I mean,” he says in an attempt to comfort her.

Lavender only gives him a sad smile, one tinged with bitterness he hadn’t thought capable of coming from her. “Don’t we all?”

That’s the last thing the girl says to him before she leaves the room, no doubt to go get something to eat as the bedroom clock indicates they’d been talking for the last three hours. Harry watches as she goes and though he would follow after her given he was quite hungry as well, he doesn’t. He had a certain situation to rectify first,

~~~~~~~~~~

  
Pacing back and forth, Harry fidgets as he waits outside the door of Dumbledore’s room. He doesn’t quite know why he stalls but eventually he manages to push the uneasiness down and bring himself to rap three short knocks.

“Come in,” his mentors voice calls from the other side and Harry enters the room to see Dumbledore’s situated on a chair overlooking the train window.

“Um, hello sir.”

“Harry my boy,” Dumbledore greets him.”What can I do for you?”

“I apologized to Lavender for earlier and I came here to say sorry as well,” he says though it’s hard for him to raise his head to meet the other’s face. 

His mentors fuzzy eyebrows raise as though he had not expected the boy to come forward to admit his mistakes and Harry felt slightly better that he had put his pride aside. 

“I also came to say that I want our training to be done together,” he explains further as Dumbledore closes the book he seems to alway carry with him and rests it on the arm of the chair face down so that Harry can’t make out any of the words. 

“That is a pleasant surprise. What causes this change in mind if I may ask?” His mentor inquiries for it was barely that morning that the tribute had seemed dead set on working alone.

Harry is embarrassed at the call out given it makes it appear that his resolve is questionable but he perseveres. “We had a talk about it, working together I mean, and I realized that I didn’t want us to have to fight before the games even started,” the boy acquiescences.

The mentor gazes at Harry over his spectacles, as if he too is seeing the boy in a newfound light. “I see.”

Harry plays with the sleeves of his sheet under the mans stare before he finally turns back to the window but the conversation is far from over.

“Tell me Harry,” Dumbledore asks after a moment of thoughtful silence, “why did you volunteer for the games?”

Said volunteer does a double take. Why did he volunteer? Well the answer wasn’t as simple as saying he felt sorry for Dudley. It was much more than that. It was years and years of pain and rage and the ever constant thirst for something unexplainable that lurked down deep inside him. But Harry couldn’t put it all into words and so that is what he tells Dumbledore’s. “I’m sorry sir but even I’m not sure why I volunteered. I can’t explain it exactly.” 

Hearing the boy's explanation the man hums noncommittally as he raises his hands to rest his chin on them. “I suppose then you are unsure of how exactly you’re going to win the games then?”

“Well it’s not like I have anything that could help me,” Harry confesses. At breakfast he honestly wasn’t trying to downplay his strengths even if Lavender had thought he was, there genuinely wasn’t anything special he had or could do that would assist him.

The older man takes in the teens words and chews them over his mind.

Before him stood a boy who for all it seemed had nothing going for him. But Dumbledore knew that there was more to this slaughterhouse boy than appearances led to believe.

After all, it was Dumbledore who had sat on the stage platform and had witnessed Harry step forward during the Reaping, and though the boy had looked scared as he walked to take his cousin’s place, there had been a passion in his eyes that was begging to be heard.

It was that fevor, the fire which reminded Dumbledore so much of a boy he’d once known in his past, that had caused him to step in place as District 10’s mentor at the last second instead of Minerva.

Though everyone, and even Harry himself, seemed to believe that he didn’t have what it took to participate in the games, Dumbledore knew for a fact that wasn’t true. He’d seen that fire, that strength before, in none other than Harry’s own parents, James and Lily, who had fought so valiantly for what they had believed to be right. The mentor knew he could not tarnish their legacy by leaving their son to struggle alone in the dark.

“Though you may think that you don’t have any skills that are of benefit to you that does not make you helpless-” the man holds up a hand to stop Harry, who had opened his mouth to protest, before continuing on, “- _just remember that in the end it is our choices Harry that show what we truly are far more than our abilities._ ”

Harry stops short, the excuse dying on his lips as he considers Dumbledore’s statement.

The Hunger Games were all about a tribute's abilities and how they measured up but as he thinks over the man’s words, he finds that he wasn’t wrong. There had been many choices made over the course of the annual games, some good, some bad, some heartless, some compassionate, and though they all may have had different outcomes and results, in the end each one had been made and that was perhaps the most important part.

Seeing that his words have their desired effect, the mentor leaves the conversation on that note as he returns to his book. “I suggest you go and get ready for we’re almost at our destination,” Dumbledore tells him and though the man is looking down at his book, Harry could have sworn he saw the beginnings of a smile on his mouth.

Listening to his suggestion, the tribute leaves the room to prepare himself for the unavoidable moment he’ll be delivered to the waiting jaws of the Capitol but his mentor's advice stays in his mind.

Maybe Dumbledore was right. Though Harry didn’t quite have the option to back out now, he had made his choice and it would be up to him to stick with it. The first chess piece had already been moved and all that Harry was faced with now was the decision of just how exactly he wanted to play this game.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

It’s a little after three when the group reassembles and have gathered back into the viewing room only this time both Harry and Lavender sit together on the couch.

“I dare say we’ll be at the Captiol any moment,” Gilderoy announces as he enters the room, clapping his hands together.

Harry manages to catch one last glimpse of the outside world, still full of fields before the train is bathed in sudden darkness. Lavender grabs at his hand and he wonders if she is afraid of the dark. Maybe that was why she liked the stars so much.

It’s no power outage though given that the train is currently traveling through the tunnel that separates the Capitol from the other districts.

As the seconds stretch pass and they still remain without light, Harry finds himself a little claustrophobic. The darkness reminds him of a closest the Dursley’s used to lock him in when he was younger and didn’t do his chores correctly or made Dudley angry for whatever reason his cousin could blame him for. All the breath is stolen from his lungs just like when he had been underwater but Harry forces himself to breathe.

Luckily the darkness is punctured by sunlight as the train finishes its journey and comes through the tunnel until it comes to a complete stop at the Captiol station.

“Ready or not here we go,” Gilderoy beams out as he ushers the group to the loading platform just as the doors split open.

As the group steps off their train and make their way across the platform, they’re met with even more flashing cameras and the screams of excited Capitol citizens.

Harry’s attention is pulled into so many directions he almost hurts his head from swiveling it around to take in all the details. The buildings are even more impressive than when he’d seen them on t.v in the past and they tower high into the sky. Shiny cars zip down tracks as more and more citizens appear in a sea of color and sound.

Despite their seemingly happy and animated faces, Harry knows they’re all are waiting for the moment they will see his face on screen when the tributes were dumped in the Hunger Games arena. 

The District 10 tribute turns to look at Lavender who,just like she had been at their district’s train station, is smiling and waving to the crowd who all scream and gawk at her. 

Her actions don’t upset him though now that Harry knows what really lays hidden beneath the sparkling smile. Knowing that that he had a least one ally on his side, a spark of hope flares up in his heart. Though Harry didn’t know what lay in store ahead for either of them, at least, for the moment, the two had each other and that was enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllooo!! I know that there wasn’t a lot of action in this chapter given that I wanted to focus more on character personality and relationship building so my apologies. Next week’s chapter will follow a similar theme as we get more into Tom’s perspective and his thoughts of the whole situation but both him and Harry will meet very soon, or at least see each other so stay tuned for that!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I unfortunately don’t have a beta so please let me know if you spot any mistakes. Additionally anything in italics is original text from either HP or HG Hope you enjoyed! ;)


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